COLLEGE  OF  AGRICULTURE 
DAVIS,  CALIFORNIA 


THE 


0¥L  CREEK  LETTERS, 


AND 


OTHER  CORRESPONDENCE, 


BY    W. 


NEW  YORK : 
PUBLISHED   BY  BAKER    &    SCRIBNER, 

145  NASSAU   STREET   AND  36   PARK    ROW. 

1848, 


UWVERSTTY  OF  CAUFORMA 

LIBRARY 

COLLEGE  Of  AGRICULTURE 


S.  W.  BENEDICT,  Printer, 
16  Spruce  Street. 


CONTENTS, 


LETTER  I.  Page. 

NIGHT  ON  THE  RIVER  BANK,  9 

LETTER  II. 

THE  FOREST  BEAUTY,  17 

LETTER  III. 
THE  NIGHT  HUNT,  23 

LETTER  IV. 
THE  RIVER  AND  THE  CABIN,  32 

LETTER  V. 

A  FOREST  FUNERAL,  41 

& 

LETTER  VI. 

THE  CABIN  AT  NIGHT,  50 

LETTER  VII. 
NIGHT  IN  THE  WOODS,  59 

LETTER  VIII. 
THE  LEGEND  or  THE  HAUNTED  ROCK,  68 

LETTER  IX. 
THE  THUNDER  STORM,  79 

LETTER  X. 

THE  MOURNER,  -  88 


IV  CONTENTS. 

LETTER  XI.  Page. 

THE  OCEAN,  94 

LETTER  XII. 
STONINGTON  POINT,  10i 

LETTER  XIV. 
A  LEGEND  or  MONT  AUK,  106 

LETTER   XV. 
BLOCK  ISLAND,  114 

LETTER  XVI. 
THE  FIRE-SHIP,      -  124 

LETTER  XVII. 
THE  SOUND,  133 

LETTER  XVIII. 
A  MEMORY  o*'  THE  OLD  CONGRESS,  142 

LETTER  XIX. 
THE  DESERTED  CHURCHES,  150 

LETTER  XX. 
THE  DOVE  OF  THE  MOHAWKS,  159 

LETTER  XXI. 
THE  RAIL-ROAD  AND  THE  GRAVE- YARD,         -  169 

LETTER  XXII- 
FACES,  180 

LETTER  XXI11. 
THE  COTTAGE,  -  -  -  192 


INTRODUCTORY. 


MY  DEAR  L : 

These  letters,  which  were  commenced  without 
any  idea  that  ihey  would  be  continued  beyond  the 
month  in  which  the  first  one  was  written,  have  at 
length  become  a  long  series,  and  are  now  gathered 
between  covers  for  your  benefit,  whose  they  have 
been  in  their  origin  and  continuation. 

And  you  will  permit  me,  in  laying  a  copy  of  them 
on  your  table,  to  say  again  and  yet  again,  that  it 
shall  always  be,  as  it  has  always  been,  my  duty  as 
well  as  my  happiness,  to  contribute  in  every  method 
in  my  power  to  your  gratification,  however  slight  my 
ability  may  be. 

These  letters  which  have  met  your  eye  regularly, 
as  they  have  from  time  to  time  appeared  in  the 
Journal  of  Commerce,  are  no  elaborate  paintings. 
They  profess  to  be  entirely  the  contrary.  Many  of 
them,  in  fact  the  larger  portion,  were  written  under 
circumstances  that  rendered  it  impossible  to  refine  a 
sketch  or  shade  an  outline  With  folio  resting  on 


VI  INTRODUCTORY. 

a  gnarled  branch  of  the  fallen  tree  on  the  river  bank, 
or  on  the  unsteady  deck  of  the  Phantom,  or  on  my 
knee  in  a  rail-car,  by  the  sunlight,  by  the  twilight, 
by  the  fitful  glare  of  the  pine  knots  on  the  cabin 
table ;  at  morning,  evening,  and  midnight,  from 
every  place,  every  situation  ;  these  sketches  have 
been  sent  without  revision,  without  even  a  second 
reading  after  being  once  written,  and  while  they 
lack  the  polish  which  a  careful  elaboration  might 
have  given  them,  they  will  be  more  valuable  to  you 
as  the  unschooled,  unwhipt  fancies,  and  the  matter- 
of-fact  experiences  of  your  friend. 

They  were  sent  originally  to  be  read  by  the  deni 
zens  of  our  great  city,  and  thus  published  in  the 
columns  of  a  commercial  paper.  It  may  be  sup 
posed  that  they  contain  much  that  would  scarcely 
interest  such  readers  ;  and  I  may  have  failed  to  at 
tract  their  attention  to  my  thoughts  in  my  many 
rovings.  Yet  I  have  never  hesitated  in  overstepping 
the  ordinary  line  of  demarkation,  nor  did  I  ever  fear 
that  allusions  to  the  deeper  feelings,  the  finer  sensi 
bilities,  the  holier  affections  of  the  heart,  would  fail 
to  meet  a  welcome  in  any  soul  which  has  been 
thoughtful  while  it  has  lived.  On  the  contrary,  I 
have  found  none  so  ready  to  sit  and  talk  with  me 
as  I  most  love  to  talk  in  the  more  serious  hours  of 


INTRODUCTORY.  Vll 

my  day,  as  are  those  very  persons  who  are  at  other 
times  occupied  with  the  weary  duties  of  business- 
life. 

That  heart  was  originally  callous  and  has  not  been 
made  so  by  contact  with  the  world,  which  refuses  to 
grow  glad  when  the  springs  of  youth  gush  forth 
again.  Believe  me,  there  are  very  few  persons  who 
can  look  at  the  days  of  youth  in  any  other  light  than 
as  a  holy  memory.  To  you,  to  them,  to  me,  the  past 
is  a  memory  of  vigils  on  earth,  by  the  wreck  of 
many  earthly  hopes,  the  grave  of  many  earthly 
loves.  A  memory  of  green  fields  we  once  walked 
through,  and  pure  springs  we  once  drank  of,  such 
fields  as  we  may  never  walk  through  again,  such 
springs  as  we  may  never  kneel  beside  again,  until 
the  voices  that  died  away  here  break  once  more  me 
lodiously  on  our  ears,  and  we  find  rest  in  the  green 
fields  by  the  still  waters  of  the  better  land. 

I  need  not  point  you  to  the  refuge  from  such  a 
saddening  memory.  When  visions  of  faded  fancies, 
of  eyes  that  are  dim,  and  forms  that  are  dust,  thus 
haunt  you,  when  songs  long  hushed  fall  faintly  on 
your  ears  as  echoes  from  the  blue  arch  of  heaven 
mingling  somewhat  of  its  sounds  with  their  own 
remembered  tones,  you  will  go  as  I  have  gone,  out 
into  the  starlight,  and  bowing  reverently  awhile,  lift 


Vlll  INTRODUCTORY. 

your  longing  and  expectant  gaze  to  the  God  who  is 
more  immutable  than  the  stars  or  than  their  laws, 
and  bethink  you  of  the  land  which  is  beyond  them. 
Thus,  whatever  might  be  thought  of  these  letters 
by  others,  I  have  been  always  sure  that  they  met  a 
welcome  in  one  seat,  by  one  fireside,  knowing  that 
your  heart  answered  mine  in  every  emotion  of  plea 
sure  or  of  pain.  And  while  I  give  them  now  to  the 
public  in  a  new  form,  you  will  permit  me  to  say  that 
I  should  not  do  so,  were  I  not  well  assured  that  you 
would  place  some  value  on  them,  above  what  yan 
stranger  to  me  might  estimate  them  at,  and  that  while 
I  remain  a  stranger  to  others,  you  will  find  no  diffi 
culty  in  recognising  the  familiar  initial  of  your  old 
friend,  W. 

OWL  CREEK  CABIN,  Jan.  1848. 


THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 


LETTER   I. 

NIGHT    ON   THE    RIVER   BANK. 

OWL  CREEK  CABIN,  Nov.,  1846. 

IN  the  grand  old  forest !  Weariness  is  gone 
and  all  care  and  sadness,  and  we  rejoice 
under  the  calm  blue  sky  with  perfect  joy. 
As  the  stars  began  to  shine  (Monday 
evening  it  was),  we  came  out  from  the 
wood,  on  the  bank  of  the  river,  and  met 
Nora  and  Echo — Good  dogs !  How  glad 
they  were  to  see  us  again.  Nora  is  a  know 
ing  animal,  and  as  she  came  and  stood 
before  me,  and  put  her  paws  on  rny  shoul 
der  and  looked  wistfully  in  my  face,  I  knew 
as  well  as  if  she  had  spoken,  that  she 
wanted  to  know  how  they  all  were  at  home, 

and  especially  how  one  was  .       Ah 

Nora,  you  think  as  much  of  your  gentle 

mistress  as  your  master  does.     "  She's  well, 
2 


10  THE    OWL    CREEK   LETTERS. 

good  dog,"  said  I,  "  and  they're  all  improv 
ing,"  and  Nora  was  satisfied;  and  straightway 
she  arid  Echo  began  to  raise  the  greatest 
racket  of  joy  you  can  imagine,  and  that 
brought  Black  and  Willis  out  of  the  cabin ; 
and  then  we  had  a  welcome  as  warm  as 
ever  welcome  was  in  our  luxurious  city,  and 
proceeded  to  enlighten  them  with  reference 
to  matters  and  things  in  the  world  from 
which  we  had  come ;  and  when  midnight 
came,  it  found  us  sitting  in  front  of  the 
hearthfire  still. 

In  the  matter  of  sociability  we  lack  no 
thing  now.  Willis,  J.,  and  myself,  are  friends 
by  no  common  bond.  Long  talks  have  we 
now  of  college  days,  and  of  scenes  in  our 
lives,  not  long  but  weary  enough.  We  have 
had  joys  together,  and  have  wept  together. 
Yes,  we  call  ourselves  men,  and  yet  we 
three  have  wept  over  the  graves  of  the  good 
and  well  beloved.  So  joying  and  sorrowing 
together,  we  go  on  loving  and  loved,  and 
we  three  are  left  to  one  another  now,  alone, 
of  all  the  young  and  manly  and  fair  that  sat 


NIGHT  ON  THE  RIVER   BANK.  11 

together  a  few  years  ago  in  a  quiet  home  on 
the  banks  of  the  Hudson. 

And  that  reminds  me  of  our  last  expedi 
tion,  of  which  I  must  tell  you.  The  day 
before  yesterday,  we  had  started  for  the  Wil- 
lahanna,  but  were  led  to  the  North  by  an 
expectation  of  better  game.  The  truth  was, 
we  had  an  idea  that  an  old  bear,  with  at 
least  one  cub,  had  crossed  the  country  above 
us,  and  we  hoped  for  the  good  luck  of  meet 
ing  them.  It  was  just  at  sunset  that  we 
reached  the  foot  of  the  highest  hill  in  the 
country,  and  resolved  to  see  the  sun  go 
down  from  its  top.  The  sides  were  covered 
with  hemlock  and  cedar  and  scrub-oak, 
strangely  mixed,  but  the  peak  was  open, 
and  a  large  rock  rose  in  the  centre  like  a 
monument.  Willis  reached  the  summit 
first,  and  called  my  attention  to  a  hickory 
tree,  in  the  bark  of  which  he  had  found  my 
mark.  I  made  it  there  four  years  ago,  when 
alone  on  a  hunt,  but  the  point  of  especial 
interest  was  a  mark  underneath  it,  which 
Willis  did  not  know.  T  knew  it  well,  and 


12  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

as  the  sun  went  down  in  the  sky,  I  looked 
in  the  gathering  glory  of  the  West,  and 
wondered  if  the  spirit  of  my  friend  were 
with  me  there. 

How  wildly  we  are  driven  about  by  the 
tempests  of  life.  Years  had  passed  since 
we  met  last,  but  he  had  crossed  my  track 
here  in  the  lone  forest,  on  this  mountain 
summit,  and  had  made  a  note  in  the  bark 
that  said  to  me  in  his  own  tone  of  voice,  so 
well  remembered,  "Friend  I  have  come 
where  thou  hast  been,  and  I  remember." 
Hs  is  dead  now  !  He  died  in  the  strength 
of  manhood,  with  his  clear  eye  fixed  on 
Heaven.  Afar  off  in  the  East,  our  eyes 
saw  the  last  sun-ray  gleaming  on  a  blue 
mountain  peak.  At  the  foot  of  that  moun 
tain  is  a  grave-yard,  and  in  that  grave-yard 
is  a  mound,  marked  by  a  plain  white  stone, 
whereon  is  the  name  of  the  noblest  spirit  of 
the  class  of — .  That  is  the  grave  of  hopes, 
golden  hopes ; — the  grave  of  love — a  holy 
heavenly  love,  that  weeps  even  now  over 
the  fallen. 


NIGHT  ON  THE  RIVER  BANK.  1  3 

As  I  named  his  name  to  Willis  and  J — , 
an  expression  of  sadness  stole  over  their 
faces,  Yind  we  sat  on  the  rock,  and  watched 
the  fading  light,  and  spoke  of  him  forget 
ting  entirely  the  necessary  preparations  for 
the  night.  As  darkness  enveloped  us,  we 
concluded  to  make  our  bivouac  at  the  foot 
of  the  rock,  and  so  kindling  a  fire  we  piled 
on  all  the  broken  branches  and  wood  we 
could  collect,  swept  or  kicked  together  into 
a  niche  of  the  rock  as  many  leaves  as  lay 
about,  lit  our  cigars  and  sat  down.  J — 's 
pocket  furnished  a  partridge,  and  mine  some 
dried  venison,  salt,  &c.,  and  Willis  added 
some  cold  corn  cake.  The  partridge  soon 
swung  over  the  fire  by  a  green  vine  branch, 
and  the  appetites  of  the  three  added  what 
was  wanting,  if  anything. 

As  we  sat  here  disposing  of  the  edibles 
as  fast  as  possible,  J —  pointed  out  a  light 
in  the  forest,  or  rather  over  the  top  of  it,  at 
a  distance  of  perhaps  two  miles,  which  he 
thought  was  smoke  from  some  one's  camp 
fire.  We  had  expected  to  meet  Black  the 


14  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

next  day  on  the  Willahanna,  but  it  occurred 
to  me  that  he  might  have  taken  the  same 
course  we  had,  and  I  know  that  if  k  were 
he,  Nora's  voice  would  reach  him. 

The  dog  has  a  way  of  speaking,  I  can't 
*  call  it  howling,  when  she  hears  a  mournful 
sound,  and  I  had  before  taken  advantage  of 
this  peculiarity.  I  therefore  called  her  to 
me,  and  commenced  as  piteous  a  howl  my 
self  as  I  could  get  up.  She  took  the  idea, 
and  sent  a  mournful  sound  over  the  silent 
and  solemn  forest,  that  must  have  scared  the 
very  ghosts  of  the  Indians  that  haunt  them. 
I  never  heard  so  wild  a  cry  as  that,  save 
once  when  I  heard  a  drowning  horse  in  the 
Scioto. 

Her  voice  rang  and  echoed  among  the 
trees  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  until  it  seemed 
as  if  the  fiends  themselves  were  wailing 
there,  and  one  calling  to  another,  and  the 
other  answering  again,  and  all  together 
shrieking,  till  the  sounds  died  away  in  the 
dim  old  arches.  Willis  and  J — ,  who  had 
added  their  voices  in  screams  of  laughter 


NIGHT  ON  THE  RIVER  BANK.  15 

to  my  howl  and  Nora's  wail,  had  ceased, 
and  were  leaning  forward  and  listening  as 
intently  as  I,  when  a  rifle  rang  in  the  woods, 
and  the  light  blazed  suddenly  as  if  an  arm 
ful  of  leaves  had  been  thrown  on  it.  We 
answered  by  three  shots,  that  Black,  if  it 
were  he,  might  recognise  our  number.  The 
next  moment  the  light  disappeared,  by 
which  we  knew  that  the  fire  was  scattered, 
and  whoever  the  party  was,  he  or  they 
would  be  with  us  soon.  In  half  an  hour, 
Black  came  up  the  hill,  and  we  exchanged 
notes,  talked  till  midnight,  and  then  slept 
till  morning.  As  I  woke  the  day  was 
breaking  in  the  east,  and  when  the  sun  rose 
we  were  on  our  way.  As  for  the  bear  afore 
said,  we  haven't  seen  her  yet.  At  noon 
yesterday,  we  learned  that  she  was  dead ; 
killed  two  days  before.  So  we  changed  our 
march,  spent  last  night  in  a  cabin  in  the 
forest,  and  this  morning  reached  the  bank 
of  the  Willahanna.  The  information  which 
we  got  there  was  such  as  induced  us  to 
return  to  our  cabin  to-day,  and  we  reached 


16  THE  OWL  gREEK  LETTERS. 

home  this  evening.  The  amount  of  game 
killed  in  the  three  days  is  small,  and  we 
are  rather  ashamed  of  our  deeds.  A  fox 
which  J —  shot  this  morning,  and  a  wild 
duck  of  Willis's  killing,  is  the  sum  total- 
But  we  have  had  a  pleasant  walk,  and  some 
fun,  and  not  a  little  excitement,  and  so  our 
lives  pass  here. — My  visit  to  the  city  has 
been  productive  of  one  good,  if  no  more,  in 
adding  J —  to  our  Company.  But  beside,  it 
has  made  me  know  how  happy  I  actually 
am  in  the  forest.  We  grow  proud  and  ego 
tistical  here,  fancying  all  the  glories  of  na 
ture  made  for  our  especial  benefit.  We  at 
least  learn  to  feel  our  own  importance,  and 
gain  in  that  sort  of  self  respect  which  is  no 
hurt  to  a  man.  "  We  learn  to  battle  with 
giant  thoughts,"  said  Willis.  "  None  of  that 
Joe,  that's  Byronic,"  said  J — ;  "  Byron  was 
always  battling  with  strong  thoughts,  and 
they  generally  beat  him."  It  is  late  as  I 
write,  and  I  have  just  looked  out  at  the  sky. 
The  head  of  Taurus,  with  the  bright  star  of 
the  Wanderer,  is  past  the  zenith,  and  I 
know  it  must  be  midnight. 


LETTER   II. 

THE    FOREST   BEAUTY. 

NEW  YORK  CITY,  Feb.,  1847. 

ON  a  bright  winter  morning  we  emerged 
from  the  forest,  and  found  ourselves  standing 
once  more  in  the  broad  and  civilized  world. 
The  first  sight  of  life  that  greeted  our  eyes 
was  a  mill,  and  as  we  stooped  to  drink  of 
the  water,  we  found  it  filled  with  sawdust, 
and  our  lips,  that  had  been  gladly  wet 
where  frogs  and  lizards  were  swimming 
with  the  water-snake  unmolested,  refused  to 
touch  that  stream  wherein  the  evidences  of 
our  fellow  man's  existence  and  presence 
and  work  of  destruction  were  visible.  It 
was  a  long  journey  and  a  wearisome  one 
(for  we  were  leaving  the  homes  of  our 
hearts)  that  brought  us  to  the  city,  and  as 
we  stepped  from  the  boat  on  the  wharf,  we 
looked  at  each  other  and  sighed,  and  (was 


18  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

it  weakness  ?)  were  sick  of  humanity,  and 
would  gladly  have  been  back  again.  We 
grasped  each  other's  hands,  and  looking 
sadly  at  the  river  once,  buttoned  our  coats, 
looked  at  one  another  again,  sighed  once  or 
twice,  and — "  Carriage,  Sir  ?" — we  were  in 
N.  York. 

What  do  you  think  of  us  when  I  tell  you 
that  on  Christmas  morning  Willis  and  my 
self  were  again  in  the  forest  ?  So  it  was. 
We  had  grown  so  weary  already,  and  so 
heartily  sickened  was  I  of  living  the  life  of 
hypocrisy  that  I  needs  must  live  if  among 
men,  that  I  shouldered  my  rifle,  gave  Willis 
notice,  and  found  him  at  my  side  ready  for 
one  and  but  one  more  hunt. 

It  was  a  night  hunt  for  deer  on  the  Willa- 
hanna.  We  reached  the  lake  bank  that 
morning.  The  sun  was  warm  and  clear, 
but  before  dark  it  had  become  cloudy,  and 
at  eight  o'clock  the  gloom  was  impenetra 
ble.  We  had  appointed  a  rendezvous  at  the 
outlet,  and  reached  it  ourselves  just  at  dark, 


THE  FOREST  BEAUTY.  19 

but  the  remainder  of  our  party  (our  old 
friend  Black  and  another  backwoodsman) 
did  not  arrive  till  nine. 

By  way  of  episode  I  may  as  well  tell  a 
story  here.  Joe  and  myself  were  seated  in 
the  Log  Cabin  of  Farmer  S.  (at  the  outlet) 
which  is  the  most  extensive  and  comfortable 
log  cabin  I  have  ever  seen ;  the  fire  was 
blazing  so  as  to  render  candles  useless,  and 
I  was  composing  myself  to  a  quiet  doze  in 
my  chair,  when  a  lady  entered  a  side  door, 
bowed  quietly,  and  said,  "  Good  evening, 
gentlemen.  You  are  welcome.  What 
news  do  you  bring  us  from  the  great  city?" 

In  every  sense  she  was  queenly.  Her 
voice  was  as  musical  as  a  waterfall  in  a 
moony  night.  (Water  always  sounds 
sweeter  by  night  than  by  day.)  Willis,  who 
is  a  staid  fellow  and  never  thrown  off  his 
balance,  replied  with  a  bow : — "  News  of 
wars  and  rumors  of  wars,  madam ;  not  so 
pleasant  as  you  doubtless  bring  from  fairy 
land,  for  you  must  have  come  from  there  to 


20  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

this  wild  place."  "  Oh  no,  no,  I  came  from 
P "  said  the  lady  laughing,  and  the  con 
versation  ran  on  merrily  awhile,  and  I 
gathered,  in  my  listening,  her  history.  I 
talked  little,  for  Joe  monopolized  all,  and 
besides  I  am  a  confirmed  old  bachelor, 
having  had  miserable  success  in  such 
affairs.  She  was  the  daughter  of  farmer 

S ,   educated    in    the    city,  and    with 

wealthy  and  aristocratic  relatives,  with 
every  inducement  to  remain  in  the  gay  life 
of  the  world.  But  no — she  clung  tq,  her 
mother  and  her  home,  and  when  her  years 
of  study  were  over,  she  went  gladly  and 
hastily  to  that  forest  home,  to  live,  and  (if 
she  could  find  nothing  but  nature,  that 
would  do)  to  love  and  die.  I  assure  you  it 
was  strange  to  meet  such  a  vision  of  love 
liness  there,  and  hear  her  talk  as  earnestly 
as  she  did  of  all  the  beautiful  and  glorious 
works  of  God.  She  sang  songs  of  Scotland. 
How  her  voice  did  swell  with  the  mournful 
melody  of  "Jeannie  Morrison!"  Willis 


THE  FOREST  BEAUTY.  21 

(the  baby)  cried  outright,  and  I — the  truth 
is  when  she  sang  "  I'm  wearing  awa'  Jeen," 
I  was  thinking  a  sad  thought  and  looked 
another  way ;  and  when  she  sang  to  an  old 
air,  which  she  had  arranged  for  the  words 
herself,  Moir's 

"  Fare  thee  well,  our  last  and  fairest, 
Dear  wee  Willie,  fare  thee  well,"  » 

I  moved  out  of  the  fire-light.  I  have  written 
more  of  this  than  I  intended,  but  it  is  a 
forest  incident.  One  thing  rest  assured  of, 
namely,  that  if  Joe  ever  writes  you  a  letter 
from  that  part  of  the  country,  it  will  be  dated 
"Bank  of  the  Willahanna,"  and  requesting 
you  to  publish  a  notice  for  him,  not  under 
the  head  of  "  Deaths."  All  that  night  we 
hunted,  and  yet  when  I  rose  after  a  short 
sleep  the  next  morning,  I  found  him  stand 
ing  by  Miss  C.  on  the  bank  of  the  lake, 
teaching  her  the  use  of  his  rifle,  and  as  I 
approached  them,  I  heard  something  about 
the  most  fatal  wound  being  in  the  heart ;  it 
annoyed  him  somewhat  that  I  took  up  the 
gauntlet  just  there,  and  assured  her  most 


22  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

seriously  that  Joe  was  mistaken,  practically, 
as  a  deer  often  carries  a  ball  in  his  heart 
some  distance,  and  it  was  always  safer  to 
shoot  at  the  shoulder.  "  Break  his  fore 
leg,"  said  I,  "  and  you  are  sure  of  him." 

Blessings  on  that  fair  girl.  She  came 
to  us  as  a  vision  from  a  fair  and  holy 
country,  and  I  thanked  God  that  He  made 
some  such  to  be  on  His  earth. 


LETTER  III. 

.THE    NIGHT    HUNT. 

NEW  YORK  CITY,  Feb.  1847. 

IT  was  ten  o'clock  nearly  when  Black  ar 
rived  with  Smith,  and  interrupted  our  con 
versation  by  the  fireside.  It  would  be  no 
more  than  the  truth,  if  I  acknowledged  that 
'we  were  ready  to  give  up  the  hunt  entirely, 
and  stay  where  we  were.  The  night  was, 
as  I  have  said,  very  dark  and  very  cold,  and 
the  Lake,  which  had  not  yet  been  frozen, 
gave  promise  of  being  closed  over  in  the 
morning,  if  the  wind  should  fall.  When 
we  went  out  to  look  at  it,  it  was  like  taking 
a  cold  bath.  We  shivered  and  our  teeth 
chattered  merrily.  But  we  nerved  our  cour 
age,  and  Willis's  suggesting  that  our  forest 
friend,  Miss  C.,  would  not  admire  a  back- 
out,  decidedly  warmed  us. 

The  lake  is  shaped  like  a  figure  8.     At 
the  end  of  the  larger  part  is  the  outlet.    The 


24  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

narrower  part  is  formed  by  two  mountains 
which  frown  across  the  water,  on  whose 
peaks  and  sides  gigantic  hemlocks  nod 
solemnly  to  one  another,  and  in  a  windy 
night  moan  and  wail  in  the  desolation  of 
solitude.  The  whole  lake  (3  miles  long  by 
an  average  of  l\  broad)  is  surrounded  to 
the  very  shore  by  hills  covered  densely  with 
forest,  in  which  we  have  hunted  in  past 
years  every  four  footed  beast  that  is  in  our 
forests,  from  bear  to  fox. 

The  grandeur  of  a  night  scene  on  the  lake 
I  have  never  seen  surpassed.  Our  canoe 
— shall  I  describe  that ;  I  forget  that  I  write 
for  citizens  who  imagine  these  implements 
of  '  venerie'  to  be  such  as  they  have  read  of 
in  magazines,  whose  contributors  sit  by  their 
comfortable  tables  and  write  of  things  they 
have  evidently  seen  little  and  know  nothing 
of.  It  would  amuse  you  to  see  the  actual  dif 
ference  between  hunting,  and  that  which  is 
called  hunting  in  magazine  tales.  A  hunting 
coat  is  in  the  city  a  decidedly  dashing  coat, 
fit  to  wear  in  Broadway.  My  hunting  coat 


THE  NIGHT  HUNT.  25 

isv  the  most  respectable  one  that  has  been 
seen  on  the  lake  in  years,  and  consists  of  a 
Scotch  plaid  loose  roundabout,  hanging  like 
a  bag  to  my  waist,  and  tied  in  front  with 
black  strings.  There  is  not  a  button  on  it, 
nor  should  there  be. 

Let  me  describe  Joe  Willis  in  full  dress, 
and  you  will  know  how  a  city  bred,  fashion 
able  man  looks  in  the  forest  when  he  looks 
as  he  should — and  be  sure  when  you  hear 
of  handsome  hunting  coats  (or  see  them 
either),  hunting  boots,  and  silver  breeched 
rifles,  that  those  rifles  in  the  hands  of  such 
men  wouldn't  throw  a  ball  into  a  barn  door 
across  a  barn  yard. 

Joe  is  a  good  looking  fellow  (he'll  blush 
at  reading  that,  for  he  is  modest  too),  but  his 
Bleecker  St.  friends  wouldn't  recognise  him 
in  this  dress. — To  begin  :  Head  covered  with 
a  tight  skull  cap  without  front — no  collar 
nor  cravat — (we  never  dream  of  colds),  a 
roundabout  like  mine,  only  made  of  darker 
plaid,  and  tied  with  bright  red  strings,  a  loose 
pair  of  dark  pants,  and  as  light  shoes  as  can 


26  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

be  made  strong.  Boots  are  never  used  in 
hunting.  No  man  can  run  or  jump  well  in 
boots.  His  powder  is  in  a  very  small  flask 
in  his  coat  pocket,  on  the  left  side,  where, 
also,  are  balls.  His  rifle  is  a  plain  swivel 
breech,  and  his  eye  is  so  used  to  it  that  his 
ball  never  varies  an  inch  in  three  hundred 
yards.  But  I  was  to  speak  of  that  canoe.  It 
is  a  simple  "  dug-out,"  about  thirty  five  feet 
long  and  less  than  three  wide.  Sharp,  and 
slightly  turned  up  at  each  end,  and  as  un 
pleasant  a  craft  to  sail  in,  for  one  not  used  to 
it,  as  could  well  be  invented  ;  but  when  well 
balanced,  with  four  good  paddlers,  I  have  no 
idea  of  anything  swifter  in  the  small  boat 
line. 

I  took  the  bow  paddle  and  Willis  the  last 
one.  Black  and  Smith  were  between  us, 
and  with  slow  stroke  standing  all  of  us  ; 
we  sent  her  out  into  the  night.  I  had  often 
left  the  same  spot  in  the  same  canoe,  on  the 
same  errand,  but  never  felt  as  I  felt  that  night, 
and  (I  can't  tell  the  reason,  nor  could  he), 
as  we  left  the  shore  Willis  commenced  a 


THE  NIGHT  HUNT.  27 

low  chant  which  we  had  learned  from  an 
Indian  long  ago,  and  as  I  listened,  I  found 
he  had  adapted  it  to  the  celebrated 

"  Dies  irse,  dies  ilia, 
Solvet  ccelum  in  favilla, 
Teste  David  cum  Sibylla." 

and  I  joined  it.  Black  and  Smith  who  had 
heard  the  Indians  when  we  heard  them, 
joined  us,  only  varying  in  the  use  of  words  ; 
for  while  we  sang  the  Latin  hymn  they  sang 
the  Indian  words,  or  what  it  sounded  like 
when  the  old  Indians  sat  by  their  fire  and 
chanted  till  they  slept : 

"  Che-o-wan-na !     Che-o-wan-na." 

And  so  we  swept  along,  and  I  verily  be 
lieve  if  you  had  met  us  out  on  that  lake  that 
night,  and  seen  us  pass  you,  timing  our  pad 
dles  to  the  solemn  chant,  you  would  have 
only  doubted  whether  you  had  seen  the 
ghosts  of  dead  Christians  or  Savages. 

Five  minutes  or  less  brought  us  under 
the  precipice  of  the  Willawan,  and  we  rest 
ed. — A  pan  of  pine  knots  soon  blazed  on  the 
prow  of  the  canoe,  prevented  from  shining 


28  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

on  us,  but  casting  a  broad  light  over  the  wa 
ter.  "We  then  entered  the  smallest  part  of  the 
lake,  and  I  guided  the  canoe  to  the  mouth 
of  a  small  brook.  We  went  now  very  slow 
ly,  and  as  we  neared  the  shore  we  laid  our 
paddles  down  and  waited  a  few  moments 
for  the  game;  then  paddled  slowly  along 
the  shore  till  Black's  ear  caught  the  sound 
of  a  tread  in  the  forest. 

At  the  next  instant  I  saw  the  fire-light  in 
two  eyes  that  glared  wildly  at  us  from  the 
shore,  and  aiming  at  the  place  I  supposed 
the  ear  of  the  deer  to  be  I  shot.  He  jump 
ed  forward  and  fell  in  the  water.  After  he 
fell  we  were  about  to  pull  up  to  him,  when 
Willis  called  suddenly  "  Stop,"  and  the  next 
moment  his  rifle  cracked — "  What  was  it  ?" 
"  I  don't  know  what.  I  saw  a  pair  of  bright 
eyes  up  yonder  in  the  dark.  Is  there  a 
bank  up  there  ?"  "  No— nothing  but  trees. 
It  must  have  been  a  panther.''  "  There  they 
are  again ;  steadily  now,"  said  I,  and  swing 
ing  the  breech  of  my  gun  over,  I  guessed 
from  the  eyes  where  the  neck  must  be,  and 
shot  for  that.  One  of  the  wildest  screams 


THE  NIGHT  HUNT.  29 

that  ever  entered  my  ears  filled  the  air  and 
rang  across  the  lake.  They  heard  it  dis 
tinctly  at  the  outlet,  three  miles  off.  "  Put 
out  the  light,"  shouted  Willis.  I  dashed  the 
fire  into  the  lake,  and  our  eyes  no  longer 
dazzled  by  it,  began  to  distinguish  trees,  and 
finally  saw  the  animal  clinging  to  a  branch 
of  a  tree,  not  fifty  yards  from  us.  Black  took 
a  cool,  calm  sight  over  his  barrel,  and  shot. 
The  huge  cat  dropped  stone-like  and  dead, 
and  we  pushed  inshore  to  take  our  game. 
Willis's  ball  was  in  his  breast,  and  he  claim 
ed  and  held  the  skin  by  hunter's  law.  "  Be 
quick,"  said  Black,  "  or  the  mate  will  be 
here ;"  and  so,  throwing  deer  and  panther 
across  our  canoe,  we  pushed  out  into  the 
lake  and  waited  awhile,  hoping  the  other 
would  come.  But  she  came  not,  and  we 
turned  homeward.  As  we  passed  the  nar 
row  part  of  the  lake,  we  heard  the  cry  of 
the  female  off  on  the  mountain,  and  waited 
again,  but  in  vain.  Our  rifle  shots  had  scared 
her  away. 

We  pulled  slowly  along  the   shore  for 
awhile,  with  our  fire  rekindled,  but  saw  no 


30  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

more  game;  and  at  midnight  the  clouds 
broke  away  and  the  stars  shone  out.  Ex 
citement  had  kept  us  warm,  and  I  now  sat 
down,  or  rather  lay  down  on  my  back,  and 
looked  up,  and  thought  of — it  would  do  you 
no  good  if  I  should  say  what,  and  I  might 
have  been  better  occupied.  But  it  was  a 
glorious  night,  and  the  wind  had  gone  down, 
and  the  solemn  trees,  stood  sentinel-like 
above, — and  farther  up  in  the  deep  sky,  and 
away  down  in  the  deep  water,  gleamed  the 
watch-towers  of  heaven,  and  we  seemed 
floating  in  the  midst  of  them — on  air  rather 
than  on  water.  If  however  any  such  idea 
were  in  our  minds,  it  would  have  been  dis 
pelled  by  the  concluding  incidents  of  the 
night's  adventures.  I  had  not  noticed  that 
Joe  had  dropped  his  paddle,  and  lay  in  the 
other  end  of  the  canoe,  just  as  I  was  lying 
in  my  end,  while  Smith  and  Black  did  all 
the  paddling.  After  awhile  Joe  seemed  to 
have  been  thinking  deeply,  for  he  called  out 
to  me,  (my  head  by  the  way  was  resting  on 
the  panther  and  Joe's  on  the  deer),  "  Will, 
do  you  believe  the  evidence  of  the  senses 


THE    NIGHT    HUNT.  31 

always?  Now  look  up  yonder  and  see 
those  stars,  and  you  have  only  ocular  evi 
dence  that  they  are  there.  How  do  you 
know  they  are  not  down  below  also  ?  For 
just  look  over  the  side  into  the  water.  I  had 
been  looking  so  for  ten  minutes,  and  as  Joe 
saw  fit  to  look  over  the  same  side,  we  all 
started  on  an  expedition  to  find  some  other 
than  ocular  demonstration  of  the  existence 
of  stars  down  below.  In  a  twinkling  we 
were  all  in  the  water, — Smith,  Black,  Joe, 
and  myself,  swimming  among  paddles,  pan* 
ther  and  deer,  and  each  man  holding  his 
rifle  instinctively.  It  Avas  odd  that  we  lost 
nothing ;  but  we  swam  around  and  reversed 
the  canoe,  baled  her  out  and  picked  up  the 
game  the  best  way  we  could.  Black  pushed 
the  canoe  ashore,  and  Joe  and  myself  swam 
to  it,  about  fifty  yards  off.  Think  of  that  ye 
city  men  in  your  overcoats !  a  bath  on  Christ 
mas  night  at  12  o'clock ! 

So  ended  the  season.  I  am  again  among 
brick  walls  and  weary.  When  I  am  again 
on  the  Willahanna  or  in  my  cabin,  you  may 
hear  of  me. 


LETTER   IV. 

THE   RIVER   AND    THE    CABTN. 

NEW  YORK,  MARCH,  1847. 

I  PROMISED  that  you  should  hear  from  me 
again  when  I  reached  my  cabin :  but  I  have 
had,  ever  since  I  wrote  my  last,  an  increas 
ing  desire  to  tell  you  of  some  other  incidents 
of  forest  life,  and  finding  a  tempting  sheet 
of  paper  lying  before  me,  and  seeing  withal  a 
tremulous  motion  in  my  pen  in  yonder  stand, 
and  sitting  as  I  happen  to  sit  at  this  moment 
underneath  the  antlers  of  the  largest  buck 
I  ever  shot,  I  cannot  resist  the  invitation  the 
pen  gives  me.  Consider  then  my  promise 
of  silence  unmade,  and  let  me  write  on. 

It  is  night,  and  darkness  lies  over  the 
mighty  city.  A  darkness  of  deeper  black 
ness  than  night  alone  can  make,  up  out  of 
which  ascend  the  mingled  voices  of  strug 
gling,  joying,  agonizing,  dying  humanity. — 


THE  RIVER  AND  THE  CABIN.        33 

And  I  bethink  me  of  the  solemn  night  times 
in  the  forest,  when  the  holy  stars  looked 
peacefully  down  through  the  hemlock 
branches,  and  the  moonlight  fell  as  if  angels 
poured  it  over  the  lake  and  on  the  water 
falls.  If  you  had  been  there,  you  would  not 
wonder  at  the  frequent  comparisons  I  draw 
between  the  woods  and  civilization.  I  went 
there  first  when  in  college,  years  ago,  and  I 
still  retain  most  vividly  the  impressions  I 
first  received,  as  Willis  and  myself  came  out 
on  the  bank  of  the  river,  some  two  miles 
above  the  cabin  which  has  since  been  our 
starting  point  in  all  hunts,  and  the  place  from 
which  we  hail. 

Our  day's  walk  had  been  long  and  weari 
some,  and  we  saw  the  sun  set  from  the  hill 
top  just  before  we  descended  to  the  bank  of 
the  stream.  Being  then  wholly  unac 
quainted  with  that  section  of  country,  and 
not  knowing  of  a  settlement  or  cabin,  we 
made  our  preparations  for  a  comfortable 
night's  sleep  on  a  rock  near  the  water, 
which  was  overhung  by  higher  rocks,  and 

3 


34  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

shaded  by  masses  of  Rhododendra.  Drift 
wood  from  the  shore  made  our  fire  blaze 
merrily,  and  as  twilight  settled  we  disposed 
of  a  wild  duck  and  some  crackers,  which 
constituted  the  sum  total  of  our  larder,  and 
being  well  satisfied  with  that,  stretched  our 
selves  on  our  backs  and  talked  till  mid 
night.  One  by  one  the  glorious  assembly 
appeared  above  us,  and  we  who  had  learn 
ed,  by  long  experience,  to  sleep  thus,  recog 
nised  and  welcomed  the  companions  of  our 
magnificent  bed  chamber  in  a  hundred 
such  scenes.  For  we  had  learned  to  regard 
them  as.  our  truest  and  most  holy  visible 
friends.  They  never  failed  to  keep  ap 
pointments,  but  whenever  and  wherever 
we  lay  down  to  rest  they  were  there ! 

The  rushing  of  the  rapids  lulled  us  to 
sleep,  and  I  dreamed  all  manner  of  strange 
dreams,  until  a  slight  touch  on  my  foot 
awoke  me.  Willis  was  lying  on  his  face  at 
full  length,  with  his  rifle  in  his  hand,  and  his 
head  slightly  raised,  as  he  looked  over  the 
water  at  some  object  in  the  moonlight  which 


THE  RIVER  AND  THE  CABIN.        35 

1  could  not  distinctly  see.  His  foot  had 
touched  mine.  I  managed,  without  rising, 
to  screw  (that's  the  word)  myself  along  to 
his  side,  and  ask  what  was  in  the  wind,  or 
rather  in  the  water.  He  replied  that  he  had 
woke,  and  was  lying  on  his  side  looking 
up  the  stream,  when  he  heard,  as  he  sup 
posed,  the  leap  of  some  large  animal  into 
the  water,  and  thought  also  that  he  saw  the 
plash  about  a  half  mile  up  on  the  opposite 
side.  The  distance  at  which  a  sound  caq.  be 
heard  over  the  water  in  a  calm  night,  is  as 
tonishing  ;  but  no  ear  which  was  not  re 
markably  acute,  could  distinguish  between 
such  a  sound  and  the  continual  rush  of  the 
river,  which  was  not  loud,  although  the  cur 
rent  was  deep  and  strong.  Well  assured, 
however,  that  Joe  would  not  mistake  in  such 
a  matter,.  I  waited,  with  him,  the  event ;  for 
we  judged  that  the  swift  stream  would  bring 
any  large  animal  as  far  down  as  our  position 
in  a  few  minutes,  especially  if  it  were  deer, 
who  can  swim  with  astonishing  swiftness 
across  still  water  (astonishing  when  we  con- 


36  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

sider  the  size  of  their  feet  and  legs),  but  can 
make  no  headway  against  the  current.  Joe's 
usual  accuracy  had  not  failed  him,  for  all 
that  I  have  related  had  occupied  but  a  short 
space  of  time,  and  before  he  had  finished 
the  answer  to  my  question,  his  rifle  was  at 
his  shoulder  and  his  sight  taken  on  a  small 
black  spot  that  came  floating  down  in  the 
moonlight. 

A  deer  swims  with  nothing  above  water 
but  about  one-half  his  head.  The  whole 
body  and  the  head,  up  to  a  line  across  un 
der  the  eye,  are  immersed.  It  was  there 
fore  not  difficult  for  a  practised  eye  to  re 
cognise  the  object  on  which  he  had  sight,  as 
the  head  of  a  buck  slowly  nearing  our  shore, 
but  sweeping  down  with  the  current. 
Without  a  motion  more  than  was  necesary 
to  keep  the  mark  covered,  Willis  followed 
the  game  with  his  eye  and  rifle,  until  the 
moonlight  fell  on  it  just  as  he  wished,  and 
then  shot.  For  an  instant  after  the  crack 
of  his  rifle,  a  perfect  stillness  fell  over  every 
thing,  for  by  contrast  our  ears  were  rendered 


THE  RIVER  AND  THE   CABIN.  87 

deaf  to  the  ripple  of  the  water.  The  Mlence 
was  almost  fearful.  The  next  moment 
changed  it  into  a  succession  of  the  strangest 
and  most  startling  echoes  I  ever  heard. 
The  river  bed  rang  as  with  a  hundred  rifles. 
From  the  opposite  shore,  from  the  rocks 
above,  and  from  the  bend  below,  came  back 
the  sharp  sound,  and  echoed  and  re-echoed 
more  and  more  faintly  till  it  almost  ceased, 
and  then,  from  away  up  the  river  came 
back  a  single  heavy,  half  suppressed  report. 
The  buck  was  hit  A  plunge  which  threw 
his  fore  feet  out  of  the  water  showed  it,  and 
then  he  vanished  altogether.  By  this  we 
knew  that  he  was  dead ;  for  in  death  the 
weight  of  the  antlers  carries  the  head  below 
water. 

Leaving  our  rock,  we  sprang  down  to  the 
edge  of  the  water,  and  in  a  moment  caught 
sight  of  the  body  as  it  went  over  a  ripple. 

The  night  was  cold  enough  to  make  the 
idea  of  a  swim  uncomfortable,  and  we 
therefore  followed  the  stream  down,  watch 
ing  the  deer,  and  hoping  he  would  float 


38  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

reach  of  the  shore.      But  for  two 


miles  he  tept  the  middle  of  the  river,  which 
then  widened  and  flowed  slowly.  It  was 
with  no  small  gratification  that  we  found  a 
canoe  lying  here,  and  pushed  out  for  our 
game.  On  returning  to  the  shore,  we  found 
ourselves  at  the  mouth  of  a  creek,  into 
which  we  paddled,  and  drawing  canoe  and 
deer  on  the  bank,  we  cut  the  throat  of  the 
latter,  and  looked  about  for  the  owner  of  the 
former.  We  soon  saw  a  cabin  or  log  house, 
but  the  sky  told  us  that  morning  was  not 
far  off,  and  the  hoot  of  the  owls,  which  grew 
more  and  more  melancholy,  corroborated 
the  idea  ;  so  we  concluded  not  to  wake  the 
occupants.  We  therefore  sat  down  on  the 
bank,  and  commenced  a  conversation, 
which  I  have  not  yet  forgotten. 

It  was  and  is  the  great  pleasure  of  our 
forest  life,  that  we  are  by  no  means  shut  out 
from  the  conversation  and  the  thoughts  of  the 
more  civilized  world  ;  and  I  have  learned 
many  lessons  from  Willis,  Russell,  and 
others,  while  we  thus  sat  alone  and  talked 


THE   RIVER  AND  THE  CABIN.  39 

of  the  spiritual  or  the  ideal.  It  may  seern 
strange  that  we  should  mix  up  so  much  of 
the  mental  with  the  physical  as  we  do ;  but 
we  never  spend  three  hours  in  hunting, 
without  discussing  one  or  another  subject, 
far  distant  from  the  scenes  we  are  in,  and 
relating  usually  to  philosophy,  either  natu 
ral  or  mental.  I  remember  that  at  that 
time,  Willis  spoke  first  of  Plato's  idea  that 
the  noblest  occupation  of  man  was  the 
study  of  the  gods,  and  remarked  that  it  was 
but  natural  that  a  heathen  philosopher 
should  so  think  if  he  studied  the  stars,  but 
expressed  also  the  wonder  that  so  few  so 
thought.  As  the  first  dim  sons  of  night 
began  to  disappear,  we  grew  silent,  and 
looking  up  watched  the  fading  of  our  com 
panion-stars.  One  by  one  they  sank  into 
the  sky,  as  babes  into  their  mothers'  arms. 
The  most  dead  silence  conceivable  reigned 
(as  it  always  does)  when  the  dimmest  of 
of  them  vanished,  and  we  looked  up  and 
fixed  our  eyes  on  one  brighter  than  any 
other,  until  it  flickered  like  a  far  beacon 


40  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

light  in  the  sea  wind,  and  the  blue  deep 
closed  over  it  What  a  marvellous  depth 
the  sky  heS,  when  the  sun  rays  are  stream 
ing  over  it  before  they  touch  our  hill  tops ! 
The  tall  dead  hemlock  on  the  peak  of  the 
opposite  mountain  had  not  yet  been  gilded 
by  the  first  sunbeam,  when  a  man  came 
from  the  cabin  and  gave  us  a  woodland  in 
vitation  to  breakfast.  Such  was  our  intro 
duction  to  Black  and  our  Owl  Creek 
Cabin. 


•^,       •        # 

L  E  T  T  E  R  V. 

A  FOREST  FUNERAL. 

NEW  YORK,  MARCH,  1847. 

I  HAVE  been  several  times  on  the  point  of 
writing  you  about  Sunday  in  the  forest,  but 
have  each  time  forgotten  my  intention,  or 
had  something  else  to  say.  There  have 
been  many  scenes  of  worship  in  which  I 
have  taken  part,  or  which  I  have  witnessed. 
I  have  seen  the  ignorant  worshipper  of 
senseless  images,  and  the  formal  worship 
pers  of  the  pretended  real  body  of  The  Cru 
cified,  present  in  the  bread  of  the  Host.  I 
have  heard  the  solemn  cathedral  chant 
when  thousands  knelt  and  prayed,  and  I 
have  heard  the  miserere  in  the  solemn  Pas 
sion  night  thrill  through  the  soul  of  count 
less  waiting  worshippers.  But  I  never  felt 
so  near  to  God  and  so  near  to  Heaven  as 

3* 


42  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

on  the  bank  of  the  river  on  a  calm  Sunday 
morning,  when  the  thousand  voices  of  the 
forest  were  united  in  a  hymn  of  joy.  There 
is  a  melody  in  running  water  that  is  never 
imitated  or  equalled  by  any  art ;  and  there 
is  a  strange  harmony  between  the  sounds 
of  running  water  and  rushing  wind  and  sing 
ing  birds  and  the  voices  of  the  various  wood 
animals,  that  altogether  make  up  the  morn 
ing  song  of  the  forest  when  it  wakes  to  praise 
the  Infinite. 

How  slowly  and  silently  the  dead  leaves 
drop  one  by  one  into  the  water  from  the 
listless  branches.  The  branches  themselves 
bend  and  sway  up  and  down  and  back  and 
forth  as  if  with  life ;  for  it  does  not  seem 
that  any  wind  is  blowing,  but  the  trees  lean 
over  as  if  to  see  their  own  shades  a  thou 
sand  times  repeated  in  the  rippling  river, 
and  reach  their  arms  down  toward  the  glit 
tering  surface,  as  if  longing  to  lie  in 
the  cool  clear  bed. 

Some  of  them  have  fallen.     Yonder  is  one 


A  FOREST  FUNERAL  43 

that  has  lain  for  four,  yes,  six  years,  to  my 
knowledge  in  that  same  position — and  every 
year,  at  the  same  time,  I  come  and  sit 
here  and  watch  that  long  branch  swaying 
backward  and  forward  in  the  swift  current. 
Once,  while  Willis  and,T  sat  here,  he  saw 
a  mink's  head  rise  above  the  water  in  the 
eddy  below  the  trunk,  arid  his  rifle  ball,  true 
to  his  unerring  aim,  cracked  the  small  skull 
at  this  distance,  and  it  is  not  less  than  a 
hundred  and  twenty  yards. 

We  had  one  long  and  weary  and  some 
what  unsucessful  expedition  last  fall.  We 
made  our  calculations  to  go  through  the 
whole  hunting  district  in  the  course  of  six 
days,  and  reach  the  river  ten  miles  below 
our  cabin  on  Saturday,  so  that  we  might  at 
tend  church—or  rather  hear  preaching,  in 
a  log  school  house,  from  a  clergyman  who 
once  a  month  visited  the  small  settlement. 
We  worked  hard  during  the  week,  and  we 
were  not  sorry  at  dusk  on  Saturday  to  sit 
down  in  the  comfortable  frame  house  of 


44  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

Colonel ,  who  is  the  owner  of  some 

thousands  of  acres  in  that  immedate  vicini 
ty.  The  school  house  in  which  services 
were  to  be  held  is  beautifully  situated  in  a 
grove  of  oaks  on  a  point  around  which  the 
river  bends  and  runs  rapidly  with  a  lulling 
sound.  Did  you  ever  notice  how  different 
the  voice  of  a  river  is  in  passing  different 
scenes  ?  Up  in  the  gorge  above,  it  is  wild, 
and  rages  as  if  angry  with  the  rocks  it  meets, 
and  its  voice  is  like  the  voice  of  a  roused 
warrior.  But  here  it  goes  slowly  and  se 
dately  by  the  little  "  oak  school  house,"  as 
it  is  called,  and  would  seem  to  linger  as  if 
loving  the  quiet  scene. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  of  Saturday  night 
that  a  messenger  came  to  Col. ,  request 
ing  him  to  go  to  the  cabin  of  a  settler  some 
three  miles  down  the  river,  and  see  his 
daughter,  a  girl  of  fourteen  who  was  sup 
posed  to  be  dying.  Col. awoke  and 

asked  me  to  accompany  him,  and  I  con 
sented,  taking  with  me  the  small  package 


A  FOREST  FUNERAL.  45 

of  medicines  which  I  always  carried  in  the 
forest.  But  I  learned  soon  that  there  was 
no  need  of  these  for  her  disease  was  past 
cure. 

Leaving  the  house,  we  descended  to  the 
bank  of  the  river,  and  stepped  into  a  canoe 
that  lay  in  an  eddy,  and  seizing  a  pole, 

flattened  at  one  end  for  a  paddle,  Col. 

pushed  the  slight  vessel  out  into  the  current, 
and  we  shot  swiftly  down.  You  may  ima 
gine  the  scene  if  you  choose,  as  I  lay  in  the 
bottom  of  the  canoe,  and  he  used  now  his 
pole,  and  now  his  paddle,  to  guide  the  bark 
in  the  rapids. 

"  She  is  a  strange  child,"  said  the  Colo 
nel,  "  her  father  is  as  strange  a  man.  They 
live  together  alone  on  the  bank  of  the  river. 
They  came  here  three  years  ago,  and  no 
one  kno'ws  whence  or  why.  He  has 
money,  and  is  a  keen  shot.  The  child  has 
been  wasting  away  for  a  year  past.  I  have 
seen  her  often,  and  she  seems  gifted  with  a 
marvellous  intellect.  She  speaks  some- 


46  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

times  as  if  inspired  ;  and  she  seems  to  be 
the  only  hope  of  her  father." 

We  reached  the  hut  of  the  settler  in  less 
than  half  an  hour,  and  entered  it  reverently. 
The  scene  was  one  that  cannot  easily  be 
forgotten.  There  were  books  and  evidences 
of  luxury  and  taste  lying  on  the  rude  table 
in  the  centre.  A  guitar  lay  on  a  bench  near 
the  small  window,  and  the  bed  furniture,  on 
which  the  dying  girl  lay,  was  as  soft  as  the 
covering  of  a  dying  queen.  [  was,  of  course, 
startled,  never  having  heard  of  these  people 
before  ;  but  knowing  it  to  be  no  uncommon 
thing  for  misanthropes  to  go  into  the  woods 
to  live  and  die,  I  was  content  to  ask  no  ex 
planations,  more  especially  as  the  death 
hour  was  evidently  near. 

She  was  a  fair  child,  with  masses  of  long 
black  hair  lying  over  her  pillow.  Her  eye 
was  dark  and  piercing  and  as  it  met  mine, 
she  started  slightly,  but  smiled  and  looked 
upward,  I  spoke  a  few  words  to  her  father, 
and  turning  to  her  asked  her  if  she  knew 
her  condition. 


A  FOREST  FUNERAL.  47 

"  I  know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth,"  said 
she,  in  a  voice  whose  melody  was  like  the 
sweetest  strain  of  an  Eolian.  You  may 
imagine  that  the  answer  startled  me,  and 
with  a  few  words  of  like  import  1  turned 
from  her.  A  half  hour  passed,  and  she  spoke 
in  that  same  deep,  richly  melodious  voice : 

"  Father,  I  am  cold,  lie  down  beside  me" 
— and  the  old  lay  down  by  his  dying  child, 
and  she  twined  her  emaciated  arms  around 
his  neck,  and  murmured  in  a  dreamy  voice, 
"  Dear  father,  dear  father." 

"  My  child,"  said  the  old  man,  «  Doth  the 
flood  seem  deep  to  thee  ?" 

"  Nay,  father,  for  my  soul  is  strong." 

"  Seest  thou  the  thither  shore  ?" 

"  I  see  it,  father,  and  its  banks  are  green 
with  immortal  verdure." 

"  Hearest  thou  the  voices  of  its  inhabi 
tants?" 

"  I  hear  them,  father,  as  the  voices  of  an 
gels  falling  from  afar  in  the  still  and  solemn 
night-time,  and  they  call  me.  Her  voice 
too  ;  father,— Oh,  I  heard  it  then !" 


48  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

"  Doth  she  speak  to  thee  ?" 

"  She  speaketh  in  tones  most  heavenly  !" 

«  Doth  she  smile  ?" 

"  An  angel  smile  !  But  a  cold  calm  smile. 
But  I  am  cold — cold  ! — Father,  there's  a 
mist  in  the  room,  You'll  be  lonely,  lonely, 
lonely.  Is  this  death,  father  ?" 

"  It  is  death,  my  Mary." 

"  Thank  God." 

And  she  knelt  before  him  ! 

I  stepped  out  in  the  night,  and  stood  long 
and  silently  looking  at  the  rushing  river. 
The  wife  of  a  settler  arrived  soon  after,  and 
then  the  Colonel's  excellent  lady  and  her 
daughter,  and  we  left  the  cabin. 

The  Sabbath  morning  broke  over  the 
Eastern  hills  before  we  reached  the  school 
house  again.  But  never  came  Sabbath  light 
so  solemnly  before.  The  morning  service  in 
the  school  house  I  have  not  room  to  de 
scribe  now,  for  I  have  taken  more  time  and 
space  than  I  had  any  idea  of. 

As  evening  approached,  a  slow  and  sad 
procession  came  through  the  forest  to  the 


A  FOREST  FUNERAL.  49 

little  school-house.  There  with  simple  rites 
the  good  clergyman  performed  his  duty,  and 
we  went  to  the  grave.  It  was  in  the  inclo- 
sure  where  two  of  Col.  — : — 's  children  lie,  a 
lovely  spot.  The  sun  was  setting  as  we  en 
tered  the  grove.  The  procession  was  short. 
They  were  hardy  men  and  rough,  in  shoot 
ing  jackets,  and  some  with  rifles  on  their 
shoulders.  But  their  warm  hearts  gave 
beauty  to  their  unshaven  faces,  as  they  stood 
in  reverent  silence  by  the  grave.  The  river 
murmured,  and  the  birds  sang,  and  so  we 
buried  her. 

I  lingered  and  saw  the  sun  go  down  from 
the  same  spot,  and  the  stars  were  bright  be 
fore  I  left  it — for  I  have  always  had  an  idea 
that  a  graveyard  was  the  nearest  place  to 
heaven  on  this  earth:  and  with  old  Sir 
Thomas  Browne,  I  love  to  see  a  church  in 
a  graveyard,  for  "  even  as  we  pass  through 
the  place  of  graves  to  the  temple  of  God  on 
earth,  so  we  must  pass  through  the  grave 
to  the  temple  of  God  on  high." 


LETTER  VI. 

THE    CABIN    AT    NIGHT. 

NEW  YORK,  MARCH,  1847. 

THE  story  I  was  without  forethought  led 
to  tell  you  in  my  last,  has  reminded  me  of 
one  scene  in  forest  life  which  I  have  not 
given  you  any  description  of.  I  mean  the 
cabin  hearth-side  at  night.  The  persons 
who  meet  in  the  wilderness  are  a  varied  set, 
and  it  is  not  uncommon  for  those  who  have 
similar  tastes  and  feelings,  to  be  thrown  to 
gether  in  the  most  unexpected  manner. 

I  remember  one  night,  when  the  wind 
roared  outside,  as  the  surf  roars  on  an  ocean 
beach  in  a  March  wind,  that  we  were  gather 
ed  around  a  blazing  fire  in  the  broad  stone 
chimney  of  the  cabin,  to  rest  after  a  weary 
day's  hunt.  Willis,  Russell,  Black,  and  my 
self,  were  the  company,  and  we  had  been 
eating,  but  had  grown  somewhat  silent.  I 
can't  tell  what  others  were  thinking  of,  but 


THE  CABIN  AT    NIGHT.  51 

I  was  far  away  in  thoughts.  The  sound  of 
that  wind  carried  me  to  a  distant  home,  and 
the  faces  of  the  loving  and  the  loved  were 
present  to  me,  and — and — and  a  thousand 
other  things  which  I  omit.  Echo  lay  at 
Willis's  side,  and  Nora  was  looking  up  in 
my  face  as  if  to  hear  me  speak.  The  dog  I 
doubt  not,  thought  some  of  the  same  thoughts 
that  I  did  ;  for  I  whispered  a  name  that  we 
both  knew,  and  she  sprang  to  the  door  to 
welcome  one  she  thought  must  be  near. 

At  that  moment  the  voice  of  the  wind 
grew  louder,  and  I  heard  the  limbs  of  the 
giant  oak  over  the  cabin  creaking  and  moan 
ing,  and  seemingly  pleading  with  the  tem 
pest  to  have  more  respect  for  their  venerable 
age.  The  winds  of  four  hundred  winters  had 
battled  with  the  stout  old  tree,  and  it  stood 
firm  and  strong.  Anon,  the  wind  seemed  to 
answer  the  appeal  of  the  old  father  of  the 
forest ;  and  an  animated  discussion  began. 
'*  I  am  old,"  moaned  the  tree, — "  I  am  old, 
and  four  hundred  years  have  dried  the  life 


52  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

blood  out  of  my  veins."  But  the  wind  only 
laughed,  and  the  tree  went  on.  "  I  am  stiff, 
and  easy  to  break;  have  pity!"  But  the 
wind  said  something  I  couldn't  exactly  catch, 
about  bending  or  breaking.  Then  the  oak 
pleaded  its  acquaintance  with  the  olden 
time: — "I  have  seen  the  nations  passing 
away,  and  have  grown  strong  on  the  blood 
of  the  fallen.  I  have  seen  four  hundred 
suns  pass  to  the  North,  and  four  hundred 
times  my  leaves  have  covered  the  graves  of 
the  forgotten.  We  have  been  good  friends 
long,  O  mountain  wind.  You  have  borne 
me  news  of  far  lands,  till  I  have  become  a 
historian  of  the  centuries.  I  have  heard  of 
crumbling  thrones,  of  empires  falling  and 
rising,  and  dynasties  created  and  swept 
away ;  I  have  seen  a  nation  born,  and  have 
heard  from  afar  carried  on  your  wings  the 
wail  of  nations  dying.  They  are  gone,  and 
I  stand  as  in  the  olden  time.  Spare  me,  O  . 
wind."  But  the  wind  laughed  a  wild  laugh, 
and  it  seemed  for  a  moment  as  if  a  dozen 


THE  CABIN  AT  NIGHT.  53 

winds  had  met,  and  the  old  tree  cracked  and 
crashed  as  a  large  limb  swept  off  and  fell, 
and  then  the  tempest  hushed  like  a  frighten 
ed  child  that  has  done  mischief.  A  faint 
halloo  reached  our  ears  at  this  moment,  and 
we  sprang  to  the  door.  It  was  clear  and 
light,  for  the  moon  was  near  its  full,  and  we 
saw  on  the  other  side  of  the  river  three  men, 
who  were  beckoning  for  a  boat.  Black  and 
myself  jumped  into  the  long  canoe,  forty 
feet  by  three,  and  pushed  out.  The  wind 
rose  again,  arid  it  was  with  extreme  difficul 
ty  that  we  kept  the  slight  thing  right  side  up 
as  we  paddled  across,  took  in  our  load,  and 
returned.  What  this  load  was,  will  appear. 
"  It  blows  some,"  shouted  one  of  them  in 
my  ear,  as  we  paddled  back,  "  A  few," 
answered  I,  adopting  the  slang  of  the  com 
pany  I  was  in.  Satisfied  with  my  answer, 
he  tried  to  sit  down  in  the  canoe ;  but  that 
was  not  so  easy  a  matter  as  may  be  ima 
gined.  To  do  it  properly,  required  a  series 
of  scientific  calculations  and  movements. 


54  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS.       . 

So  he  began  by  looking  sharply  at  the  prow 
of  the  boat,  knelt  on  one  knee,  and — but 
just  then  she  turned  a  little  on  one  side,  and 
he,  to  prevent  an  overturn,  threw  his  weight 
suddenly  on  the  other,  which  sent  her 
quickly  over  that  way,  and  the  consequence 
was  a  series  of  saltatory  movements  on  our 
part  to  recover  the  balance  of  the  canoe, 
which  were  not  a  little  ludicrous.  We 
reached  the  shore  safely,  and  were  soon 
seated  again  in  the  cabin. 

The  addition  thus  made  to  our  company 
consisted  of  three  as  varied  characters  as 
can  be  found  in  any  company  of  the  same 
size  anywhere.  The  principal  and  most  in 
teresting  man  of  the  three,  was  a  hunter  in 
outward  appearance,  but  a  man  of  refined 
taste  and  extraordinary  conversational 
powers.  I  had  heard  of  him  often  before  I 
met  him,  and  after  an  acquaintance  of  some 
years,  I  had  not  yet  fathomed  the  depths  of 
his  mind.  He  always  seemed  especially  in 
terested  when  I  spoke  of  a  particular  part 


THE  CABIN  AT  NIGHT.  55 

of  the  country,  and  when  the  soul  was  the 
matter  of  conversation,  I  found  him  dispos 
ed  to  entertain  some  doubtful  metaphysical 
ideas.  Farther  than  this,  I  only  knew  him 
as  a  man  of  fine  talents  and  far-reaching 
intellect.  He  never  asked  nor  took  any 
interest  in  news  from  the  world,  but  spent 
his  time  in  hunting,  fishing,  and  taking  care 
of  a  cabin  on  the  bank  of  the  creek,  three 
miles  back  from  the  river. 

Of  the  other  two  who  were  his  compan 
ions,  one  (Smith)  was  a  full  bred  hunter  in 
manner  and  character ;  a  woodsman  in 
every  sense.  The  other  was  a  singular 
specimen  of  "a  green  un,"  as  Smith  called 
him  in  a  whisper  to  me.  They  made  them 
selves,  as  they  evidently  felt,  entirely  at 
home,  and  as  they  were  made.  The  wind 
was  wild  again,  and  as  it  roared  without, 
we  sat  by  the  blazing  fire  and  talked. 

It  is  this  scene  that  I  would,  if  I  could, 
introduce  you  to.  Tales  of  past  years,  of 
toils  in  the  chase,  and  other  tales  of  distant 
scenes  filled  up  the  time. 


56  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

Willis  lay  on  the  floor  with  his  feet 
toward  the  fire,  and  looked  straight  up  at 
the  bark  covering  of  the  hut.  Smith  and 
Black  sat  on  opposite  sides  of  the  fire,  each 
on  the  floor,  with  his  feet  to  the  blaze ; 
Johnson  and  the  aforesaid  "green un," yclept 
Barnes,  sat  on  the  only  stools  of  which  our 
furniture  boasted ;  and  I  lay  on  a  bear  skin 
which  I  had  drawn  to  the  middle  of  the 
cabin,  and  raised  my  head  on  my  elbow  to 
listen  to  Johnson  who  was  speaking. 

He  told  a  sad  story  of  the  woodland.  How 
a  hunter  had  a  wife  and  child  in  a  little 
cabin  near  where  we  then  were,  and  how 
he  loved  that  wife  and  that  child  with  an 
earnest  love  that  they  returned  in  kind. 
He  kissed  them  both  one  sunny  winter 
morning,  and  told  them  he  should  not  be 
back  that  night,  perhaps  not  the  next,  nor 
the. next;  and  so  left  them.  Yet  he  turned 
back  and  looked  wistfully  at  the  cabin  door 
wherein  she  stood  holding  their  boy  up  to 
see  his  father  go,  and  so  he  went  back  and 


THE  CABIN  AT    NIGHT.  57 

kissed  them  again  and  again,  and  plunged 
into  the  forest. 

Long  and  mournful  was  her  waiting  for 
his  footstep.  But  he  came  no  more.  The 
third  day  a  heavy  snow  storm  covered  the 
ground  deep  with  the  white  mantle  of  win 
ter,  and  no  footprint  was  visible  to  or  from 
the  door  of  his  hut.  The  fifth,  the  sixth 
day  passed,  and  she  started  out  to  the  cabin 
of  the  next  settler,  some  four  miles  away, 
carrying  her  boy.  But  she  heard  no  news  of 
the  lost  one.  Spring  came,  and  the  sunshine 
melted  away  the  snow.  With  weary  heart 
and  aching  brain  she  sought  her  old  home 
to  droop  and  die.  The  cabin  was  deserted ; 
the  underbrush  grew  thickly  in  the  clearing ; 
and  "  as  I  passed  one  day  six  years  ago," 
Johnson  went  on  to  say,  "  I  shot  a  wolf  in 
the  very  doorway  of  the  cabin  at  whose 
hearth  I  had  so  often  received  a  welcome 
and  been  happy.  Not  a  year  after  the 
morning  on  which  Williams  left  his  cabin 
to  return  no  more,  a  man  found  on  the 

4 


m 

58  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

west  side  of  the  deep  gulley  of  the  Willawan, 
a  skeleton  and  a  rifle.  I  saw  the  rifle,  it 
was  Williams's.  It  was  empty,  and  the  jaw 
and  skull  of  the  skeleton  were  shattered. 
His  death  had  been  easy  and  sudden." 

A  half  dozen  stories  of  different  sorts 
were  told  as  the  night  passed  on.  I  have 
written  enough  of  this  for  the  present.  At 
an  hour  after  midnight  I  was  lying  in  a 
blanket,  and  looked  around  at  "five  men 
sleeping  as  sound  a  sleep  on  the  hard  floor 
as  was  ever  slept  on  down  or  feathers. 


LETTER    VII. 

NIGHT    IN    THE   WOODS. 

OWL  CREEK  CABIN,  April,  1847. 

I  DATE  again,  unexpectedly  to  myself,  from 
the  forest.  Tired  of  the  dull  routine  of  Doe 
vs.  Roe,  and  yet  more  tired  of  living  alone 
in  the  midst  of  a  crowd,  and  hearing  that 
the  trout  were  fine  in  the  creek,  and  plenty, 
and  as  I  heard  it  fixing  my  eye  on  a  certain 
rod  that  has  been  the  means  of  landing  some 
pounds  of  the  finest  fish  that  ever  swam  in 
fresh  water,  I  left  the  city  a  week  ago  to-day, 
and  am  here  alone.  Alone,  yet  not  alone. 
Never  happier — never  in  better  health  or 
spirits.  I  spent  the  first  day  in  looking 
around,  greeting  my  old  friends,  and  resting 
after  a  walk  of  some  forty  miles,  which  was 
necessary  to  reach  my  present  position  and 
old  home.  The  snow  has  been  off  for  some 
weeks  past,  although  all  the  neighborhood  is 


60  .  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

still  covered.  By  neighborhood,  I  mean 
nothing  within  twenty  miles  of  my  cabin. 
I  have  had  means  within  the  past  few 
weeks  of  judging  of  all  the  various  kinds  of 
travelling.  It  is  not  a  fortnight  since  I  came 
through  the  Sound  on  a  magnificent 
steamer,  and  here  I  have  reached  my  cabin 
by  weary  foot-toil  over  mountains  and  across 
streams,  and  sleeping  one  night  under  the 
cold  calm  stars.  And  I  hardly  need  say  to 
you  who  know  my  tastes  so  well,  that  I  en 
joyed  the  foot  travelling  above  the  other — 
all  save  the  fact  that  with  the  one  I  had  the 
loving  and  the  loved  for  company,  and  with 
the  other  was  alone  with  the  forest  trees. 

That  one  night's  sleep  on  my  way  hither, 
under  the  holy  starlight,  was  so  novel  as 
compared  with  the  luxurious  life  I  have 
been  leading  in  my  city  home,  that  I  cannot 
forbear  telling  you  how  it  happened.  IP 
truth  it  was  against  my  own  will.  I  had  no 
blanket,  and  my  fishing-rod  and  rifle  were 
weights  that  had  wearied  me,  and  made  me 


NIGHT  IN  THE  WOODS.  61 

long  for  a  good  bed.  The  rifle  would  have 
been  as  nothing,  but  the  rod  I  was  not  so 
well  used  to,  and  it  annoyed  me.  It  is  a 
great  mistake  to  suppose  that  a  poor  bed  is 
any  more  welcome  to  a  weary  man  than 
one  that  is  not.  A  tired  man  can  sleep  any 
where  ;  but  a  tired  man  on  a  rough  bed 
dreams  horrible  dreams,  and  wakes  usually 
more  tired  than  when  he  slept.  I  had  ex 
pected  to  reach  the  Willahana  before  dark, 
but  it  was  five  miles  ahead  of  me  when  it 
grew  so  black  that  I  could  not  tell  tree  tops 
from  clouds,  and  so  I  concluded  to  make  the 
best  of  it  and  sleep. 

I  knew  my  ground  right  well.  There  was 
a  wet,  swampy  place  about  there,  in  which 
I  was  assured  I  then  was.  North-west  of 
the  spot  in  which  I  judged  myself  to  be, 
was  a  dry,  rocky  hill  side,  and  it  therefore 
remained  for  me  to  find  it.  The  bark  of  the 
trees  soon  told  me  which  was  north,  and  I 
took  my  direction  accordingly,  and  found 
myself,  in  ten  minutes,  on  a  platform  of 


62  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

rock  something  like  forty  feet  long  by 
twenty-five  or  thirty  broad,  on  which 
masses  of  granite  had  fallen  from  the  hill 
above.  Dried  leaves  and  branches  were 
soon  gathered  into  a  pile  and  a  cheerful 
light  spreading  around,  showed  me  logs  and 
large  broken  branches  that  I  heaped  on  and 
made  a  glorious  fire. 

I  was  outrageously  hungry.  I  had  eaten 
nothing  since  six  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
and  had  nothing  in  my  pocket  but  one  bird 
and  one  trout  and  some  crackers.  That 
bird,  by  the  way,  was  a  wild  pigeon,  which 
I  had  hit  with  my  rifle  at  a  distance  of  a 
hundred  yards,  on  the  wing.  I  so  seldom 
make  a  good  shot,  that  I  put  that  on  record. 
I  heated  some  flat  stones  in  the  fire  to  a 
proper  heat,  and  had  broiled  fish  in  a  short 
time.  I  then  cut  a  stick,  and  sticking  the 
pigeon  on  the  end  of  it,  sat  down  and  held 
it  in  the  fire  ,till  it  was  done  to  a  turn.  It 
would  have  amused  you  to  see  me  sitting 
there  with  my  back  against  a  rock,  quiet- 


NIGHT  IN  THE   WOODS.  63 

ly  holding  the  pigeon  in  the  flame,  and 
slowly  turning  him  round  and  round,  and 
looking  up  at  the  clouds  and  peering  into 
the  forest,  and  listening  intently  for  every 
sound  of  life  that  was  heard  in  the  still 
night.  I  was  not  lonely  though  alone. 
Nora  (I  beg  the  dog's  pardon  for  not  men 
tioning  her  before)  lay  quietly  by  the  fire, 
looking  up  into  my  face.  I  had  given  her 
a  squirrel  some  time  before,  and  she  had 
finished  her  supper  on  that,  and  with  that 
dog  I  felt  as  secure  as  if  I  had  bolts  and 
bars  between  me  and  the  forest  air.  The 
pigeon  cooked,  my  pocket  supplied  salt  and 
crackers,  and  I  feasted.  I  did  not  even  make 
a  hunting  knife  supply  the  place  of  an  or 
dinary  one,  but  my  fingers  and  teeth  were 
knife  and  fork  enough,  and  I  had  a  grand 
meal.  Nora  cleaned  off  the  table,  and  fin 
ished  washing  dishes  by  effectually  licking 
off  the  stone  I  had  used  for  a  platter,  and  I 
started  off  to  find  some  water.  I  remem 
bered  a  brook  that  ran  down  the  hill  side  not 


64  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

far  from  me,  and  I  had  heard  its  dashing 
while  I  was  sitting  by  my  fire.     I  found  it 
without  difficulty,  but  as  I  approached  it, 
heard  the  step  of  an  animal,  and  instantly 
threw  myself  on  the  ground.     Hearing  no 
thing  now,  and  as  the  wind  was  rising,  I 
moved  slowly  toward  the  brook.     When 
within  twenty  yards  of  it,  I  saw  two  points 
of  light  which  I  knew  to  be  the  eyes  of  an 
animal.     With  great  caution  I  succeeded  in 
approaching  within  a  few  yards.     A  large 
doe  stood  glaring  at  the  fire  as  fixed  as  a 
statue,  and  by  her  side  was  a  fawn,  slight 
and  beautifully  shaped,  looking  with  equal 
intentness  on  the  strange  sight.     I  paused, 
looked  at  them,  and  admired  them  for  some 
time ;  then  gave  a  low  short  whistle  to  alarm 
them  but  not  frighten  them   away.     The 
mother  sprang  back  and  turned  and  looked 
again,  the  fawn  keeping  by  her  side.     It 
was  a  single,  graceful  bound.     I  imitated  as 
well  as  I  was  able,  the  bleat  of  the  fawn. 
It  replied  immediately,  and  the  mother  ad- 


NIGHT  IN  THE  WOODS.  65 

vanced  toward  where  I  lay  on  the  ground. 
But  Nora,  whom  I  had  left  by  the  fire,  heard 
the  bleat,  and  I  heard  her  voice  in  an  in 
stant  after,  as  she  walked  around  the  fire, 
which  she  dared  not  leave  till  I  gave  her 
permission.  At  the  first  sound  of  the  dog's 
voice,  the  doe  threw  her  beautiful  head  into 
the  air,  then  turned  and  sprang  away,  and 
the  fawn  kept  by  her  side.  I  would  not 
have  harmed  one  of  them  for  a  hundred 
like  her. 

I  rose  and*  went  on  to  the  stream,  and 
drank  of  the  cool  rich  water.  As  I  looked 
around  me,  a  sight  met  my  eyes  that  I 
would  go  a  hundred  miles  to  see  again.  The 
brook,  which  was  not  very  large,  fell  from 
a  rock  more  than  thirty  feet  high,  into  a 
dark  pool.  The  fall  was  a  sheet  of  foam, 
but  in  my  fire  light,  which,  although  several 
hundred  yards  distant,  was  bright  and  clear, 
it  seemed  to  be  a  falling  shower  of  dia 
monds  and  gems  of  every  hue.  I  saw 
a  thousand  fairy  forms  flitting  in  it  up  and 


66  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

down  among  the  gorgeous  drops,  arid 
seeming  to  struggle  up  against  the  current, 
for  awhile  successfully,  then  at  last  borne 
down  and  falling  into  the  black  deep  pool 
below.  I  sat  once  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Cave  of  Winds  at  Niagara,  when  the  moon 
was  shining  down  on  it,  and  it  looked  as 
beautifully ;  but  I  never  saw  another  scene 
that  at  all  compared  with  it.  I  will  stand 
by  that  waterfall  with  you  some  night,  dear 
.*  *  *,  and  tell  you  what  I  thought  that 
night,  as  I  looked  at  it  alone. 

An  idea  occurred  to  me  that  there  might 
be  trout  in  the  pool,  and  I  went  back  for 
my  line.  I  brought  a  coal  of  fire,  and 
gathering  some  leaves  and  small  sticks, 
placed  them  on  a  rock  that  stood  on  the 
edge  of  the  water,  and  set  fire  to  them. 
The  pool  was  about  thirty  feet  broad,  and 
somewhat  longer ;  and  this  rock  was  near 
the  fall,  and  as  I  afterward  found,  the  water 
at  the  side  of  the  rock  was  about  eight  feet 
deep.  At  the  instant  that  my  fire  blazed 


NIGHT   IN    THE    WOODS.  67 

up,  I  dropped  my  hook  into  the  water,  and 
as  it  went  down  felt  the  vigorous  pull  of  a 
large  fish.  With  no  little  trouble  I  suc 
ceeded  in  drowning  him,  and  landed  him  at 
last  on  the  bank  of  the  outlet  of  the  stream. 
He  was  a  noble  salmon  trout,  and  weighed 
not  less  than  four  pounds.  I  did  not  stop 
to  take  more,  for  I  had  no  means  of  pre 
serving  them,  and  having  secured  a  break 
fast  for  the  morning,  I  was  satisfied.  I 
amused  myself  for  half  an  hour  in  scratch 
ing  an  outline  of  the  fish,  size  of  life,  on  the 
rock,  then  stretched  myself  out  between  two 
pieces  of  granite,  with  my  feet  toward  thet 
fire,  and — I  have  an  indistinct  recollection 
of  feeling  Nora  as  she  laid  her  head  on  my 
feet.  I  knew  nothing,  however,  till  morn 
ing.  The  sun  caught  me  there,  and  when 
I  woke  I  saw  him  through  the  smoke  at 
my  feet,  just  rising  as  I  rose  too. 


LETTER  VIII 

THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUNTED  ROCK. 

OWL  CREEK  CABIN,  MAY  1st,  1847. 

IT  is  positively  the  month  of  May !  And 
here  am  I  seated  by  a  rousing  fire,  and 
looking  out  at  the  dreariest  sky  that  it 
ever  entered  into  the  head  of  man  to  con 
ceive  of!  The  clouds  have  a  desperate 
look,  as  if  threatening  snow,  and  it's  of  no 
use  to  coax  trout  to  jump  in  such  a  season 
*as  this.  They  wont  touch  bait,  and  I 
have'nt  been  able  to  persuade  one  to  look 
at  a  fly  since  last  Tuesday.  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  the  creek  were  covered  with  ice 
in  the  morning.  And  it's  May  day  !  I  think 
of  you  in  the  city  to-day,  ye  rovers.  What 
a  pleasant  conglomeration  of  beds  and 
boxes  and  bundles,  and  chairs  and  china 
and  children,  are  to  be  seen  in  the  streets, 
and  how  naturally  every  one  makes  up 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUNTED  ROCK.    69 

his  mind  to  be  as  uncomfortable  as  cir 
cumstances  will  permit,  and  as  cross  as 
he  can  make  himself  consistently  with 
his  own  convenience.  Don't  you  envy 
me  my  seat  by  this  broad  chimney,  and 
my  feet  comfortably  covered  with  a  pair 
of  the  softest  slippers  that  your  fairy  hands 
ever  traced  embroidery  over,  my  gentle 

?    By  the  way  it  would  amuse  you, 

to  see  how  beautifully  your  handiwork 
looks  at  this  instant,  half  buried  as  they  are 
in  a  magnificent  bear-skin.  Slippers  are  the 
only  luxury  I  allow  myself  here,  (books 
are  necessities  not  luxuries.) 

If  you'll  sit  down  by  me  here,  my 
friend,  (I  have  a  box  at  your  service,  or  you 
may  lie  on  the  bear-skin  and  toast  your 
feet,)  I'll  tell  you  a  story  of  these  same  hills, 
and  this  river,  that  may  be  worth  listening 
to-  It  is  a  legend  I  heard  from  an  old  In 
dian,  long  ago,  who  has  since  gone  to  the 
distant  hunting  grounds  of  his  fathers.  I 
like  to  preserve  these  tales  of  the  past, 


70  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

which  may  or  may  not  have  their  founda 
tions  in  fact,  for  they  must  in  time  be  the 
material  for  our  national  poetry,  when  our 
nation  finds  time  to  write  or  read  poetry. 
You  must  let  me  tell  the  story  in  my  own 
way. 

About  a  mile  above  here,  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  river,  is  a  precipice,  two  hundred 
feet  high,  overhanging  the  stream.  The 
ascent  from  the  land  side  is  gradual  and 
comparatively  easy,  but  from  the  river  there 
is  no  reaching  it.  About  forty  feet  from  the 
top  is  a  ledge  of  the  rock,  or  a  shelf,  some 
six  feet  wide,  on  which  grow  a  few  cedar 
bushes,  sending  their  roots  into  the  thin 
soil  which  has  collected  from  decaying 
leaves,  and  clinging  with  wonderful  tenaci 
ty  to  the  rock.  Thus  much  by  way  of  pre 
mise,  and  now  to  my  story. 

The  gern  of  her  tribe,  and  the  fairest 
child  of  the  forest  that  ever  the  good  spirit 
gave  to  the  red  man  to  tend  his  lodge  and 
smile  on  him,  was  (1  am  not  sure  of  the  In- 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUNTED  ROCK.    71 

dian  name,  it  is  so  tong  since  I  heard  it) 
Lota  wanna,  "  The  dawn  of  day,"  and  there 
was  but  one  opinion  of  that  matter  in  all 
the  red  nations  of  the  North.  Her  fame 
had  gone  out  among  them,  and  many  a 
warrior  brought  her  scalps  and  bears'  claws 
as  delicate  expressions  of  his  regard.  But 
as  far  as  my  experience  goes,  there  never 
was  a  beauty  that  was  not  'spoken  for' 
long  before  the  world  knew  her  beauty, 
and  so  it  was  with  Lota.  Syosuk  had  by 
some  means  won  the  heart  of  the  maiden, 
and  she  had  in  so  many  words  promised  to 
be  Mrs.  Syosuk.  But,  as  in  more  modern 
and  civilized  affiancing,  the  consent  of  some 
one  else  was  necessary,  and  they  went 
most  dutifully  to  consult  Papa.  The  man 
ner  in  which  such  matters  are  now-a-days 
conducted,  was  no  guide  then,  I  imagine.  I 
can  see  the  trembling  hesitating  air  of  my 

friend  B ,  when  he  asked  Mr.  M 

if  he  would  trust  his  priceless  Ellen  to  other 
hands  than  his  own.  How  he  stammered 


72  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

and  paused,  and  finally  bolted  out  his  ques 
tion  in  just  the  way  he  did'nt  mean  to,  and 
then  waited  (as  a  boy  waits  for  a  thrashing) 
to  hear  the  reply. 

Not  so  Syosuk.  He  enters  the  old  man's 
lodge,  and  with  maidenly  modesty  the  fair 
Lota  retires.  He  sits  down  and  smokes  in 
cold  calm  silence.  At  length  he  pushes  the 
blanket  from  his  shoulder,  and  leaning  for 
ward,  with  his  finger  on  a  broad  scar 
speaks : 

"  The  Mohawk's  hatchet  struck  deep  in 
Syosuk's  shoulder,  when  he  was  on  the  far 
war  track." 

"  Syosuk  is  brave." 

"  He  has  slain  these  enemies."  And  he 
threw  a  suspicious  bundle  of  hair  locks  at 
tached  to  parchment  looking  appendages, 
which  the'old  man  knew  as  so  many  scalps 
from  the  heads  of  the  enemies  aforesaid. 
"  He  has  a  lodge,  and  it  has  no  keeper.  Syo 
suk  wants  Lota." 

This  was  coming  to  the  point,  and  the  old 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUNTED  ROCK.    73 

fellow  without  a  moment's    hesitation  re 
plies  : 

"  When  the  scalp  locks  are  twice  as  many, 
Lota  will  be  in  the  lodge  of  Syosuk." 

There  was  of  course  no  appeal  from  this 
quiet  decision ;  and  Syosuk,  as  in  duty 
bound,  starts  in  search  of  heads  from  which 
he  may  obtain  the  necessaries.  A  queer 
currency  this,  especially  in  bargaining  for  a 
wife. 

While  he  is  absent,  times  change  on  the 
river  bank.  The  Chief  of  the  Mohawks 
comes  from  his  distant  lodge,  and  demands 
Lota.  He  is  refused,  and  instantly  begins 
an  exterminating  war.  She  in  her  maiden 
beauty  is  regarded  as  the  Indians  seldom  re 
garded  woman,  as  something  holy,  and  they 
said  she  had  communion  with  the  unseen 
world.  It  was  not  strange  that  such  sur 
passing  loveliness  should  seem  a  thing  of 
heaven. 

It  was  the  night  of  the  first  spring  moon. 
That  moon  went  down  a  little  later  than 


74  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

the  sun,  and  as  the  night  wore  away  toward 
its  noon  the  red  man  slept. 

Suddenly  Lota  rushed  to  her  father  and 
awoke  him,  and  with  clear  voice  cried  for 
the  tribe  to  come  to  the  council  lodge.  They 
gathered  in  haste,  and  with  torches  glaring  on 
their  fierce  faces,  the  scene  must  have  been 
wild  indeed.  Lota  stood  in  the  centre  of  the 
circle  of  warrior  chiefs — none  else  was  in 
the  lodge.  "  I  have  seen  Manitou !"  They 
started  as  if  an  angel  spoke.  "  The  Mo 
hawks  are  here.  They  will  be  in  our  lodges 
ere  the  morning  dawn.  The  good  Spirit 
bade  me  warn  you  to  watch  for  their 
coming." 

So  they  armed  themselves ;  and  when  the 
Mohawks  came,  although  outnumbering 
them  two  to  one,  they  met  a  fiercer  resist 
ance  than  ever  foe  gave  foe.  It  was  a  fear 
ful  night.  In  the  deep  darkness  men  grap 
pled  with  men,  and  the  hot  blood  gurgled 
out  of  its  natural  channels,  and  covered  the 
slippery  ground.  Long  and  fierce  was  the 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUNTED  ROCK.        75 

fight  Hand  to  hand  in  that  inhuman  butche 
ry  they  stood,  and  when  the  daylight  dawn 
ed,  there  were  but  six  left  to  the  battle  with 
but  eight.  And  these  lay  awhile  on  the 
ground  and  gathered  strength,  then  sprang 
like  wild  cats  at  each  other's  throats,  and 
with  breast  held  to  breast  fell  in  the  embrace 
of  death, — all  but  two  Mohawks.  These 
were  left  to  look  on  the  field  of  slaughter, 
and  when  they  looked  around  they  saw  no 
sign  of  life,  but  only  red  rich  blood.  They 
entered  the  lodge  of  old  Kinnyunk,  and 
found  the  chief  stretched  dead;  his  head  lay 
in  the  lap  of  Lota. 

Seizing  the  girl  who  was  stupified  with 
grief,  the  Mohawk  chief  (it  was  he)  took  her 
and  the  scalp  of  her  father,  and  went  swiftly 
to  the  Northward.  Syosuk  and  one  com 
panion  returned  an  hour  after  he  had  left, 
and  followed  on  his  trail.  They  overtook 
him  near  the  precipice  I  have  spoken  of. 
They  were  two  to  two ;  but  the  Mohawks 
had  Lota  with  them,  and  retreated  toward 


76  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

the  brow  of  the  hill,  hoping  to  secure  a  safe 
position  from  their  pursuers,  whom  they  had 
seen  far  in  the  rear.  Here  they  met,  and 
Lota  lay  senseless  on  a  rock,  while  they 
fought  a  fiercer  fight  than  any  of  the  night 
before.  The  two  who  were  not  chiefs  fell 
first.  Then,  hand  to  hand,  the  other  two 
stood  and  struck  blows  at  one  another  till 
their  arms  were  weary.  Syosuk  drove  the 
other  back  till  they  stood  across  the  body  of 
Lota.  Then  he  made  a  firm  stand,  and 
three  hours  they  made  manful  battle,  and 
she  moved  not.  Then  with  fiercer  strokes 
than  before  Syosuk  pressed  the  Mohawk  to 
ward  the  precipice,  step  by  step  backward 
and  backward,  till  a  blow  struck  his  hatchet 
from  his  hand,  and  the  next  would  have 
cloven  him  to  the  ground,  but  he  sprang 
back  with  a  long  bound,  and  his  feet  touch 
ing  the  edge  of  the  rock,  he  made  one  grasp 
at  nothingness,  and  fell  backward  over  the 
precipice  ! 

Syosuk  vturned  to  Lota.     She  was  dead. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  HAUNTED  ROCK.    77 

For  the  first  time  his  voice  was  heard,  and 
it  rang  in  the  forest  as  the  scream  of  a 
wounded  eagle.  He  took  her  in  his  arms, 
and  chafed  her  forehead  and  her  hands,  and 
called  her  name.  But  she  spoke  not,  nor 
moved,  nor  looked  as  she  had  looked  in 
days  gone  by  into  his  face  ;  and  when  the 
sun  had  set,  he  sat  silently  holding  her  in 
his  arms  and  chanting  the  solemn  death 
song.  In  the  morning  they  were  gone,  and 
the  Indians  believe  that  Manitou  took  them 
together  to  the  hunting  grounds  of  the 
blessed  In  that  bright  dream-land  of  the 
Red  man,  Lota  sits  all  day  in  the  door  of 
her  lodge,  looking  for  the  coming  of  Syosuk 
at  the  sunset.  She  is  fairer  there  than  all 
earthly  dreams  of  beauty,  and  her  eye  is  in 
tensely  bright  with  the  love  light  of  the  spirit 
home.  The  shade  of  the  Mohawk  shut  out 
from  those  broad  fields,  wanders  restlessly 
on  earth,  and  especially  haunts  the  rock  of 
his  last  struggle.  He  may  be  seen  at  times, 
in  a  starry  night,  sitting  on  the  ledge  of  the 


78  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

rock,  with  his 'head  bowed  down  on  his 
knees,  and  the  wail  of  his  God -forsaken 
spirit  is  like  the  wail  of  Lucifer  falling  from 
his  throne. 

I  can't  say  that  I  ever  heard  it. 


LETTER  IX. 

THE    THUNDER    STORM. 

OWL  CREEK  CABIN,  June,  1847. 

THERE  was  a  tempest  in  the  mountains  last 
night,  and  my  ears  and  eyes  have  not  yet 
done  with  the  roar  of  the  thunder  and  the 
glare  of  the  ligntning. — The  sun  went  down 
as  calmly  in  the  evening  as  ever  sun  went 
down  from  shining  on  this  sin-stricken 
world,  and  the  twilight  was  as  pure  and 
holy  a  twilight  as  ever  angel  basked  in.  I 
was  lazily  inclined  all  day,  and  had  been 
doing  little  more  than  mend  rods  and  lines ; 
and  when  the  sun  approached  the  horizon, 
I  was  seated  on  a  fallen  tree  with  my  feet 
in  the  river,  and  I  sat  there  till  the  last  ray 
of  daylight  shrank  back  into  the  far  blue  of 
the  summer  evening  sky.  Almost  imper 
ceptibly  darkness  stole  on,  and  the  moon 
was  watching  rne  before  I  had  begun  to 
think  of  her  presence.  The  sounds  of  the 


80  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

x 

forest  fell  peacefully  on  my  ear, — the  rush 
of  the  water,  the  chirp  of  the  insects,  the 
hoot  of  the  owls,  the  faint  far  cry  in  the  fo 
rest  that  came  occasionally  and  inexplicably, 
which  might  have  been  the  scream  of  a 
panther  or  the  wail  of  a  night  bird,  and  the 
low  lulling  rustle  of  the  leaves  as  they  whis 
pered  one  to  another,  that  now  was  the 
time  to  rest.  With  these  sounds  and  scenes 
came  that  deep  calm  feeling  of  repose  which 
is  to  be  known  by  none  who  frequent  the 
haunts  of  men, — a  feeling  of  direct  and  im 
mediate  connexion  with  the  invisible  world, 
of  total  separation  from  all  bodily  care  and 
all  earthly  presence,  and  a  sense  of  com 
panionship  with  the  holy,  the  happy,  the 
sainted.  The  soul  seemed  bathing  in  a 
serener,  a  diviner  element,  and  breathing 
the  air  of  immortality  with  full,  free  respira 
tions.  Slowly  my  head  fell  backward  against 
a  supporting  branch  of  the  tree,  and  with 
out  knowing  it,  I  gave  up  all  control  over 
body  or  mind,  and  lay  looking  upward, 
nothing  noting  the  swift  streams  below  me 


THE  THUNDER  STORM.  /        81 

Anon  the  sounds  of  the  forest  and  the 
night,  assumed  new  tones,  and  assimilated 
themselves  to  the  half  dream  which  had 
taken  possession  of  me.  The  low  song  of 
the  insect  became  a  voice  of  praise — the 
creature  beginning  its  evening  praises  to  the 
Creator.  The  river's  gushing  and-  the  soft 
mild  tone  of  the  .wind  in  the  hemlock 
branches,  was  the  distant  anthem  of  the 
blessed.  And  ever  and  again  there  came 
above  the  other  tones  a  wind  voice  of  pecu 
liar  richness  and  sweetness,  that  trembled 
fitfully  a  moment,  then  passed  into  the  an 
them  again,  and  to  my  world- wearied  ear  it 
was  a  note  flung  down  to  me  from  a  ser 
aph's  harp,  a  note  wherewith  was  joined  the 
tone  of  a  remembered  voice  whose  melody 
I  loved  in  the  olden  time,  but  whose  warb- 
lings  have  long  ago  died  away  in  the  far  off 
harmonies  of  the  better  land.  Oh  ye  who 
deem  and  dream  that  to  worship  God  with 
solemn  soul  ye  must  sit  in  Gothic  gloom, 
and  listen  to  the  organ's  triumphant  tones, 

5 


82  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

go  out  into  the  night,  and  while  all  is  hushed 
save  the  humble  anthem  of  the  humblest  of 
God's  creatures,  kneel  and  look  up  at  the 
watchers  on  high,  the  holy  stars  that  shone 
in  the  bright  fountains  of  Eden,  and  will 
shine  on  the  wreck  of  this  (when  it  shall  be 
a  God-forsaken)  world,  and  learn  at  that 
hour  and  in  that  company  to  worship  in 
spirit  and  in  truth,  T  do  verily  believe  that 
half  of  you  in  Athenian  ignorance  bow  down 
to  an  unknown  God.  But  I  am  no  preacher. 
If  you  have  mistaken  me  for  one,  please 
correct  the  error. 

The  rough  shaking  of  the  tree  in  whose 
branches  I  was  lying,  roused  me,  and  I  saw 
Black  stepping  toward  me  with  the  idea, 
clearly,  that  I  was  asleep,  and  he  could 
throw  me  from  my  seat  into  the  river.  I 
therefore  lay  quietly  till  he  had  nearly  reach 
ed  me, — and  as  he  was  walking  erect  on 
the  tree,  balancing  himself  without  touching 
the  branches  at  either  side  of  him,  I  had  no 
difficulty  in  giving  so  sudden  a  shake  of  the 


THE    THUNDER    STORM.  83 

tree  as  to  cause  him,  after  numerous  inef 
fectual  gesticulations  toward  the  stars  I  had 
been  gazing  at,  to  regard  it  as  the  best  plan 
to  take  to  the  water.  Accordingly  he  made 
a  long  leap  into  the  air,  and  falling  feet  fore 
most  into  the  eddy  below  the  tree,  swam 
quietly  toward  me,  and  when  I  did  reach 
the  bank,  which  was  with  unsteady  steps,  I 
was  thoroughly  soaked  by  water,  which  he 
applied  unmercifully. 

Sleeping  on  my  bear-skin  as  usual,  I 
dreamed  all  manner  of  strange  dreams  till  I 
was  startled  by  the  sound  of  far  off  thunder, 
a  low  muttering  among  the  distant  hills. 
Rising  from  my  bed  (or  floor)  I  went  to  the 
cabin  door,  and  opening  it  looked  out.  The 
scene  was  of  surpassing  beauty,  and  I  sat 
on  a  fallen  tree  some  fifty  yards  from  the 
cabin,  and  watched  the  dark  thunder  heads 
that  were  rising  in  the  West,  and  had  nearly 
reached  the  zenith.  Slowly  sweeping  up 
ward,  they  soon  covered  the  moon,  and  for 
awhile  a  silver  edge  was  given  to  the  cloud, 


84  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

that,  by  its  calm  beauty,  mocked  the  fierce 
flashes  that  lit  with  incessant  glare^the  cen 
tral  portions.  Soon  all  was  gloom — the  last 
faint  streak  of  blue  in  the  East,  in  which  had 
rested  a  bright  star,  peaceful  and  serene,  as 
if  opposing  with  its  incessant  purity  the 
coming  tempest  now  wholly  passed  away, 
and  the  wild  glare  of  the  lightning  was  un 
remittingly  bright.  It  was  a  strange  revel 
of  the  elements.  The  far  off  summit  of  the 
Haunted  Rock  gleamed,  white  and  stern,  in 
the  North- West,  and  the  mountain  ridge 
across  the  river  stood  boldly  out  against  the 
sky.  The  trees,  the  old  forest  trees,  bending 
and  nodding  and  wagging  their  branches, 
seemed,  in  that  magical  light,  to  be  dancing 
a  wild  dance  to  the  grand  music  of  the  tem 
pest  and  the  thunder.  The  cl'ouds  were 
fairly  spiritual,  flying  with  mad  speed,  whirl 
ing  in  mazy  waltzes  and  gallops,  twining 
their  arms  around  each  other,  and  flinging 
their  golden  tresses  out  on  the  air ;  now 
stooping  earthward,  now  hastening  heaven- 


THE  THUNDER   STORM.  85 

ward,  now  keeping  time  to  the  roar  and 
crash  of  the  thunder,  now  rushing  heedless 
of  time  or  figure  away  .across  the  heavens, 
and  vanishing  wholly  in  the  misty  East. 

That  roar  of  the  thunder  surpassed  all 
sounds  of  earth  in  its  solemnity.  It  were 
vain  to  try  to  describe  it.  It  appeared  to 
shake  the  foundations  whereon  the  very 
arch  of  heaven  rested,  and  the  earth  did  not 
seem  to  quake  or  tremble,  but  to  sway  back 
and  forth  as  a  leaf  on  a  tree-top.  The  artil 
lery  of  the  angels  fighting  the  battle  for 
heaven  against  Lucifer,  must  have  been  like 
it.  It  did  not  sound  like  the  voice  of  God, 
for  by  some  strange  mental  process  it  seem 
ed  to  convey  an  idea  of  God  that  rendered 
all  conception  of  his  voice  or  his  presence 
impossible  ;  and  terrible  as  was  that  thunder, 
it  seemed  more  like  the  voice  of  one  of  His 
servants,  than  like  His  voice  whose  eye-light 
no  lightning-flash  ever  equalled. 

I  have  said  nothing  about  rain  as  yet,  but 
you  may  well  suppose  it  rained  some  (as 


86  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

Black  expressed  it).  I  had  a  glorious  shower 
bath  of  course,  and  not  the  first  one  I  have 
thus  taken,  by  some  scores. 

Slowly  and  painfully  the  storm  went 
toiling  along,  an  din  about  half  an  hour  the 
rain  had  ceased,  and  all  was  dark  and  still. 
But  I  saw  in  the  West  occasional  flashes 
that  foretold  another  shower,  and  did  not  go 
in.  It  came  up  swiftly.  The  lightning  was 
not  frequent,  but  the  thunder  was  severe, 
and  the  roar  seemed  to  be  of  peculiarly  long 
continuance.  At  length  the  rain  began  to 
fall  in  large  drops,  and  then  to  pour  in  tor 
rents.  By  this  time  my  interest  began  to 
flag,  and  I  was  about  to  go  into  the  cabin, 
when  a  wild  flash,  followed  at  an  interval 
of  scarcely  two  seconds,  by  a  crash  of  thun 
der,  arrested  me.  I  saw  the  fire  of  Heaven 
fall  on  the  side  of  the  opposite  mountain, 
and  instantly  a  gigantic  tree  blazed  up  in 
the  midst  of  the  forest,  as  if  a  torch  were  lit 
in  the  hands  of  some  Cyclopean  monster. 
The  few  surrounding  trees  bowed  their  heads 


THE  THUNDER    STORM.  87 

and  waited  in  silence  by  the  pyre  of  their 
brother,  and  the  lurid  blaze  shot  up  into  the 
dark  sky  awhile, — then  suddenly  disappear 
ed,  and  all  was  silence,  solemn,  deep,  and 
dark ;  no  voice  of  earth  or  air  or  forest ;  no 
sound  of  wind  or  whispering  leaf  or  falling 
rain  or  bird  or  man.  Even  the  river  was 
apparently  hushed  to  perfect  stillness,  save 
once  it  rippled  loudly  over  a  rock,  one  mu 
sical  ripple,  but  then  as  if  it  had  forgotten 
itself,  it  was  still,  and  the  hush  of  deepest, 
calmest  repose  fell  over  nature. 


LETTER  X. 

THE    MOURNER. 

NEW  YORK,  JULY,  1847. 

IT  was  a  golden  morning,  that  of  the  last 
day  on  the  river,  and  Nora  and  I  had  been 
rejoiced  the  night  before  by  letters  from 
home  and  from  as  dear  ones  elsewhere, 
(Nora  always  seemed  to  know  when  good 
news  came,  and  joined  me  in  all  the  glad 
ness  it  occasioned).  As  the  sun  rose,  I  was 
standing  on  the  branch  of  the  fallen  tree  I 
have  told  you  of,  that  lies  in  the  river,  and, 
after  watching  the  round  red  day-god  rise 
slowly  from  his  forest  bed  on  the  hill  top,  I 
sprang  into  the  air  and  fell  into  the  river, 
with  a  delicious  sense  of  cool  happiness  that 
you  must  know  before  you  can  imagine. 
Black  had  trout  for  breakfast,  and  well 
cooked  as  usual.  We  ate  with  woodland 
appetites,  and  arranging  for  some  future 


THE    MOURNER.  89 

plans  with  my  kind  friend,  I  called  Nora, 
swung  my  rifle  and  rod  on  my  back,  with 
my  small  pack,  and  trudged  slowly  into  the 
forest. 

The  sunshine  scarcely  reached  the  ground 
in  that  magnificent  temple.  Long  dim 
arches,  wherein  giants  might  have  wor 
shipped  with  reverential  awe,  stretched 
away  before  me,  and  I  became  involunta 
rily  impressed  with  a  deep  sense  of  solemni 
ty  as  I  looked  up  at  the  leafy  covering.  It 
was  strangely  still.  The  very  birds  seemed 
to  be  keeping  a  Sabbath-silence.  After  a 
walk  of  perhaps  two  hours,  I  came  to  the 
bank  of  a  large  creek,  at  a  point  where  it 
widened  into  a  broad  pond :  out  in  which, 
nodding  lazily  to  the  ripples,  lay  the  beauti 
ful  lotus  flowers.  Did  you  ever  lie  and 
watch  them?  You  can't  do  it  without 
growing  sleepy.  I  threw  myself  down 
under  a  large  tree,  and  began  repeating  to 
Nora  Tennyson's  Ulysses,  and  as  I  went  on 
with  it,  line  after  line,  I  gradually  forgot  the 


90  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

place  and  the  poetry,  the  sunshine  and  the 

creek,  and I  was  woke  an  hour  later 

with  Nora's  low  growl,  and  starting  up  saw 
a  man  approaching  me.  Nora,  noble  dog, 
lay  at  my  head  looking  angrily  at  him  and 
growling,  offering  decided  objections  to  any 
one  disturbing  my  quiet  sleep.  I  recog 
nised  the  new  comer  instantly,  as  the  father 
of  the  fair  child  whose  death  and  burial  I 
told  you  of  some  time  ago,  and  he  knew  me 
also  as  the  stranger  who  was  present  when 
God  took  his  earth  idol  from  him.  I  had 
not  seen  him  since,  but  he  sat  down  by  me, 
and  I  was  astonished  at  the  calm  dignity 
and  great  intellect  of  the  hunter.  He  spoke 
of  oldentimes  as  of  the  present,  and  when  I 
mentioned  my  employment  an  hour  before, 
namely,  the  repetition  of  Tennyson,  he  took 
it  up  and  seemed  familiar  with  poets  and 
historians  and  dramatists,  of  every  age  and 
nation,  quoting  with  equal  fluency  from  Ho 
mer,  Persius,  Dante,  Corneille  and  Shak- 
speare.  Proctor  would  have  been  delighted 


THE  MOURNER.  91 

at  the  enthusiasm  with  which  he  quoted 
"  Golden  Tressed  Adelaide."  But  that  re 
minded  him  of  his  chid,  and  the  strong  man 
was  bowed  down  with  grief.  His  soul 
struggled  with  overwhelming  agony,  and  to 
call  off  his  attention  from  the  subject,  I  sent 
Nora  into  the  water  to  bring  me  a  lily. 

As  I  took  it  in  my  hand,  he  stood  and 
looked  at,  and  said  mournfully,  "  She  loved 
flowers." 

"  Aye,"  said  I,  "  And  now  she  gathers 
them  in  a  land  where  they  bloom  in  immor 
tal  radiance !  Think  you  there  are  not 
fairer  flowers  than  the  Lotus  blossom,  in 
the  waters  of  the  river  of  Life  ?"  His  eye 
lit  with  a  glow  of  enthusiasm  as  I  spoke, 
and  his  head  was  raised,  and  his  hair,  long 
and  gray,  already  streamed  out  on  the 
summer  wind  as  he  looked  up  into  the  far 
deep  sky,  as  if  to  catch  a  sound,  one  faint 
far  sound,  if  but  a  single  note  from  his 
seraph-daughter's  golden  harp,  falling  into 
the  holy  sunlight ! 


92  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

Then  his  head  drooped  on  his  breast,  his 
eye  dimmed  with  tears  (manly  tears !  were 
they  not?)  and  I  saw  his  lip  moving  convul 
sively,  "phe  is  not  here,'j  he  thought — 
"  my  cabin  is  desolate,  and  the  door  stone 
will  be  deserted  when  I  go  home  to-night !" 
No,  no,  old  man!  she  is  not  here.  Her 
white  arms  are  not  around  your  neck,  her 
kiss  falls  not  now  on  your  wrinkled  cheek ! 
Her  voice  has  died  away  in  solemn  stillness, 
and  death  has  set  his  seal  on  her  eloquent  s 
lip! 

And  he  wanders  thus  alone,  ever  think 
ing  of  her  in  the -forest  or  the  cabin,  by  day 
or  by  night  Lonely  and  sorrowful  he 
waiteth  for  the  hour  when  the  voice  of  God 
(to  him  how  welcome !)  shall  call  him  to 
join  her  yonder.  At  times,  as  he  sits  in  the 
night  in  his  desolate  cabin,  he  hears  her 
voice.  He  hears  it  as  of  old  in  all  the  melo 
dy  of  her  girlish  love.  The  white  locks  are 
softly  and  gently  pushed  back  from  his  fore 
head,  and  a  kiss  falls  on  it  as  a  drop  of  balm 


THE  MOURNER.  93 

might  fall  from  heaven  !  He  looks  up  and 
a  glorious  eye  gazes  down  on  him  through 
the  gloom,  and  a  white  hand  beckons  to  him 
from  the  Sabbath-shore.  His  heart  keeps 
vigil  like  the  angel  watchers  at  the  sepul 
chre,  with  earnest  eye  fixed  on  the  place 
where  the  object  of  his  adoration  lay. 

I  left  him.  He  went  toward  his  lonely 
cabin  some  miles  westward — I  eastward 
toward  the  road.  I  fear  me  much  (I  almost 
said  I  hoped)  when  I  am  again  at  riiy 
cabin  he  will  be  sleeping  by  her  side  in  the 
little  grave-yard.  What  a  happy  meeting 
theirs  will  be ! 


LETTER   XI. 

THE    OCEAN. 

MONTAUK,  bearing  South  40°,'  West  5  miles,      j 
July  20th,  1847.  j 

WHEN  I  wrote  you  last,  I  was  uncertain 
where  another  week  might  find  me.  It 
found  me  at  Long  Branch,  sunning  myself 
on  the  shore,  and  occasionally  fishing  in  a 
surf  boat.  The  next,  to  my  own  surprise  as 
much  as  to  any  one's  else,  I  was  on  the 
way  to  my  cabin.  But  loitering  along,  I 
was  overtaken  by  a  letter,  which  called  me 
back  after  about  a  week  in  the  forest.  I 
did  not  reach  the  river,  and  scarcely  used 
my  rifle  or  rod. 

I  am  now  rocking  quietly  and  lazily  on 
the  ocean,  in  a  small  but  comfortable  and 
beautiful  craft,  with  company  of  the  plea- 
santest  kind.  We  have  been  out  two  days 
only,  fishing,  reading,  and  sleeping.  The 


THE    OCEAN  95 

chief  object  with  all  of  us  is,  to  keep  off 
shore  until  the  weather  shall  prove  more 
tolerable  there.  Just  now,  you  cannot 
imagine  a  more  dellicious  air  than  this 
which  comes  to  us  from  the  South- West. 
It  crosses  Montauk,  but  it  receives  no  scents 
of  the  land  there.  It  is  a  pure  ocean  wind, 
and  the  life-like  boat  rises  and  falls  on  the 
waves,  as  if  it  too  enjoyed  the  breeze,  even 
as  we.  The  sun  is  but  now  going  down 
over  the  North  point  of  the  Island,  which 
lies  almost  out  of  sight  under  the  water, 
some  twenty  miles  Westward.  Mancho- 
nock,  or  Gardener's  Island,  is  nearer  by  a 
few  miles.  A  flood  of  golden  glory  is  over 
them.  What  sunsets  they  have  on  the 
East  end  of  Long  Island!  I  remember 
them  years  ago,  as  impressing  me,  when  a 
boy,  with  their  incomparable  beauty. 
Slowly  the  sun  goes  down,  lower — lower — 
but  half  its  bright  disk  above  the  horizon — 
now  a  single  line,  a  point  of  light — now  the 
whole  West  is  flooding  with  the  yellow 


96  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

beams,  as  if  the  portals  of  heaven  were 
opening  there,  and  one  small  cloud  is  almost 
as  golden  as  was  the  sun ;  and  now  that 
floats  upward,  and  grows  fainter  and  fainter, 
and  another  takes  its  place,  and  yet  another, 
and  the  smile  of  God  seems  verily  to  be 
over  the  world. 

I  have  been  resting  on  my  elbow,  gazing 
over  the  taffrail  at  that  scene,  until  I  forgot 
entirely  to  write  or  speak,  or  do  aught  else 
than  look  and  look  and  think.  It  always 
appears  to  me  at  such  times,  as  if  the  rays 
of  light  came  through  a  different  medium 
from  the  atmosphere.  They  fall  so  holily 
and  gently,  not  on  the  eye  but  on  the  soul. 
They  seem  to  be  spiritual  rays.  Who  dare 
say  that  they  come  not  through  hosts  of  un 
seen  watchers,  angels,  or  spirits  of  the  saint 
ed?  I  for  one  am  very  confident  that 
there  are  those  with  us  whom  we  see  not, 
but  whose  presence  we  may  learn  to  know. 
I  learned,  as  do  all  students  in  the  meta 
physics  of  books,  that  all  ideas  are  derived 


THE    OCEAN.  97 

from  two  sources,  sensation  and  reflection. 
I  have  since  learned  to  add  spiritual  sugges 
tion.  Do  you  not  believe  it  ?  Else  whence 
came  that  voice  to  me  last  night,  as  I  lay 
on  deck  looking  up  into  the  holy  sky,  that 
voice  of  the  buried  unforgotten  ?  I  had  not 
been  thinking  of  the  past ;  I  had  not  been 
dreaming  of  the  future.  I  was  simply  won 
dering  whether  or  not  I  could  again  go  over 
the  calculation  of  the  distance  of  Alpha 
Lyra?,  as  I  once  did  in  days  of  mathemati 
cal  inclinations.  And  as  I  lay  thus  think 
ing,  a  voice  seemed  to  say  to  me,  in  those 
clear  tones  of  the  long  lost  and  loved,  '  Do 
you  remember  that  morning  on  the  bank  of 
the  Hudson  ?'  l  Aye,  do  I,  thou  well-be 
loved  one.'  And  for  an  hour  we  talked 
of  the  days  of  boyhood  and  boyish  affec 
tions. 

I  am  interrupted  by  a  call  to  eat — a  call  I 
never  hesitate  to  answer  here,  however  often 
repeated.  Bill  of  fare :  Coffee  (good),  sea 
biscuit,  &c.,  cold  ham,  blue-fish  broiled. 


98  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

sword-fish  (a  la  Block  Island),  &c.,  &c, 
Four  gentlemen  already  seated  call  me  to 
hurry. 

July  23d,  9  o'clock  P.  M. 

I  am  lying  on  deck  writing  by  a  lantern. 
The  roll  of  the  boat  prevents  my  scrawl  being 
quite  as  intelligible  as  it  otherwise  might 
be.  The  night  is  beyond  description  beau 
tiful.  The  moon  hangs  overhead  with  pale 
and  solemn  face,  and  the  stars  keep  no  re 
luctant  vigil,  if  their  sparkling  purity  be  any 
indication. 

The  stars  and  the  ocean  have  always 
seemed  to  me  to  have  connexion.  They 
have  been  so  long  companions,  unchanged, 
unchanging.  Night  after  night,  from  the 
morning  they  sang  together  in  the  rejoicing 
anthem  of  creation  until  now,  the  sea  has 
answered  their  song  from  afar,  and  with  un 
ceasing  music  praised  the  God  of  the 
Waters,  j  Night  after  night  they  have  looked 
down  from  their  diamond  thrones  on  the 
bright  waves,  and  caressed  them  as  they 
leaped  up  to  meet  the  star-beam's  kiss. 


THE    OCEAN.  99 

Tried  companions  are  they.  The  stars 
saw  the  ocean  when  it  smiled  in  the  first 
twilight ;  they  were  above  when  it  burst  its 
bonds  and  baptized  the  world,  sweeping  an 
apostate  race  to  perdition.  They  heard 
the  last  agonizing  cry  of  mortality  as  it 
rang  over  the  sullen  waters,  and  then 
beheld  the  floods  shrinking  calmly  back 
to  their  deep  repose.  They,  with  the 
waves,  are  chroniclers  of  the  centuries,  and 
you  can  read  of  the  ages  past  as  well  in  the 
starlight  as  on  the  ocean  sand.  They  are 
alike  sublime.  Sublimity  consists  in  the 
approach  to  Infinity.  Whatever  is  Infi 
nite  is  necessarily  sublime.  The  view 
across  the  ocean,  the  horizon  of  water,  the 
unceasing  roll  of  the  surf  on  the  sand,  day 
after  day,  year  after  year,  century  after  cen 
tury,  impresses  the  mind  with  a  sense  of 
vastness  which  it  cannot  fully  grasp,  even 
as  when  we  look  up  into  the  illimitable 
sky,  we  are  lost  in  the  idea  of  immensity. 

We  are  running  in  toward  Sag  Harbor, 


100       THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

which  is  still  some  thirty  miles  distant.  We 
shall  scarcely  reach  there  before  midnight, 
and  merely  wait  to  mail  packages  of  let 
ters.  The  beacon  lights  of  the  Island  and 
Sound  are  all  around  us — Montauk  to  the 
south,  Gull  Island,  Plum  Island,  and  -the 
other  lights  to  enter  Greenport  and  Sag 
Harbor,  to  the  west  and  I  fancy  at  times  I 
can  see  Watch  Hill  away  in  the  north. 


LETTER   XII. 

STONINGTON    POINT. 

1  STON IN GTON, \CONN.,  Aug.  2d,  1847. 

WE  have  at  length  left  the  water,  and  are 
quietly  ensconsed  in  this  coolest  of  all 
cool  places  in  summer.  After  the  first 
three  days  out,  I  grew  tired  of  fishing,  and 
spent  all  the  time  in  reading  or  sleeping,  ex 
cept  when  B hooked  a  shark,  as  he  did 

in  three  or  four  instances,  and  then  I  help 
ed  kill  him  with  right  good  will.  This 
shark-catching  is  exciting  amusement. 
Hooks  and  lines  for  the  purpose  being  al 
ways  on  board,  when  he  saw  one,  B 

baited  with  a  small  blue-fish,  and  throwing 
it  over  as  far  astern  as  possible,  took  a  turn 
around  the  taffrel,  and  if  he  didn't  bite,  pulled 
in  and  threw  again.  The  second  or  third 
throw  usually  showed  the  white  side  of  the 
fish  as  he  seized  the  bait  on  the  top  of  the 


102       THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

water,  and  then,  "all  hands  to  pull  in  a 
shark !"  and  all  hands  mshed  eagerly  and 
pulled  heartily  till  he  came  under  the  stem, 
where  a  spear  soon  quieted  him.  After  in 
specting  him  awhile,  he  is  allowed  to  float 
away,  food  for  his  unscrupulous  brethren. 

But  more  than  the  sea,  I  have  enjoyed 
the  land  as  we  ran  by  it.  Here  an  island, 
there  a  head-land.  Here  the  long,  low  sand 
bar,  covered  at  high  water ;  there  the  rock- 
guarded  point,  dark  with  forests.  These 
waters  are  all  more  or  less  familiar  to  me, 
but  the  land  is  all  over  covered  with  scenes 
that  wake  a  thousand  memories. 

I  have  been  this  evening  seated  on  a  rock 
at  the  extremity  of  the  Point,  watching  the 
sun-set,  and  looking  over  the  water  as  far 
as  my  eye  can  reach.  I  had  company 
(pleasant  company  !)  and  we  talked  of  the 
scene  till  our  minds  became  so  full  of  the 
beauty,  and  finally  with  the  solemnity  of  it, 
that,  as  was  remarked,  silence  became  the 
most  pleasant  conversation.  I  fixed  my  eye 


STONINGTON    POINT.  103 

on  the  faint  blue  streak  on  the  southern  hori 
zon,  the  bluffs  of  Montauk.  The  surf  broke 
in  measured  time  around  the  rock  on  which 
we  sat.  (The  surf  here,  by  the  way,  is  not 
heavy,  except  in  a  very  high  wind  :  Fisher's 
Island  and  Watch  Hill  break  it  considera 
bly  before  it  reached  us).  The  sun  had 
gathered  round  him  a  host  of  glorious  clouds 
to  watch  his  calm  descent  into  the  water  of 
the  Sound.  In  the  South,  as  far  as  I  could 
see,  was  the  unchanged,  unchanging  ocean, 
and  the  horizon  was  formed  by  that  narrow 
blue  strip,  scarcely  distinguishable  from  the 
waves.  For  an  instant  a  sail  flashed  ouUri 
the  beams  of  the  red  sun,  as  if  a  flame  were 
playing  on  the  ocean,  a  marine  will-o'-the- 
wisp  (do  you  see  the  Irishism  in  that  sen 
tence  ?)  but  it  passed  into  a  dull  gray  again, 
and  was  no  longer  visible.  The  lighthouse 
at  Watch  Hill,  tinted  with  the  same  bright 
rays,  stood  in  the  East,  and  between  it  and 
our  seat  a  dozen  sail  of  small  boats,  freighted 
with  light  hearts  and  merriness,  or  lobsters 


104       THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

and  clams,  as  the  case  might  be,  hung  idly 
in  the  motionless  air.    * 

Anon  the  sun  went  down,  and  all  grew 
cold  and  gray,  and  a  stillness  which  did  not 
seem  broken  even  by  the  surf,  settled  over 
the  sea.  A  fisherman,  with  a  small  boy 
seated  in  the  stem  of  his  boat  on  a  pile  of 
nets,  pulled  slowly  around  the  Point,  and 
set  the  nets,  and  then  returned  homeward. 
Neither  he  nor  the  boy  spoke  a  word — 
all  was  silent.  The  surf  almost  entirely 
ceased.  The  waves  came  in  at  long  inter 
vals,  and  then  fell  with  a  half  hushed  sound 
on  the  rocks,  as  if  they  too  felt  the  beauty 
of  the  night's  approach.  • "  Is  it  not  like  a 
glorious  death,  this  sun-set  arid  the  coming 
night?"  said  my  companion.  "  Aye,"  thought 
and  said  I,  "  a  glorious  death  passing  into  a 
night  not  starless,  but  lit  with  beacon  lights, 
gleaming  clearly  and  with  heaven's  own 
lustre  through  the  gloom  of  the  grave.  I 
never  saw  sun-set  like  that  yonder,  that  did 
not  make  me  think  of  heaven." 


STONINGTON    POINT.  105 

"  It  was  right  yonder,  in  the  sun's  wake, 
that  the  Atlantic  was  wrecked." 

"  Then  verily  that  sunset  may  well  remind 
us  of  the  land  whereunto  the  sainted  are 
gone,  for  that  was  the  path  which  at  least 
one  trod  thitherward." 

"  Yes,  I  knew  him  well.  Who  knew  him 
that  did  not  love  him  ?" 

And  so  the  stars  came  out,  and  we  sat 
talking  of  the  departed — until  my  companion 
suddenly  pointed  to  the  South,  and  I  saw 
Montauk  light  just  on  the  water's  edge  ap 
parently. 

"  How  it  would  have  frightened  Wyan- 
dannee,  had  he  seen  that  beacon  in  his  time?" 

At  the  name  of  Wyandannee  I  started, 
and  straightway  we  spoke  of  the  Indian 
legends  of  old  Montauk.  If  you  have  never 
heard  the  story  of  the  chief,  it  is  worth  hear 
ing.  I  will  tell  it  briefly  when  I  next  write. 
We  left  the  point  an  hour  ago.  The  surf 
roar  has  increased  with  a  strong  South  wind, 
and  is  in  my  ears  as  I  write.  We  propose  to 
morrow  to  leave  for  Blocklsland  and  seaward. 


LETTER    XIV. 

A    LEGEND    OF    MONTAUK. 

STONINGTON,  Aug.  5th.  1847. 

IN  my  last  I  promised  a  legend  of  the  Point 
which  like  a  long  finger  points  seaward 
from  Long  Island.  It  is  a  holy  place  with 
the  red  man,  and  the  few  of  the  once  noble 
Montauks  who  now  remain,  in. the  inter 
vals  of  reason  which  they  have  and  of  sober 
reflection,  turn  sad,  and,  I  have  thought  at 
times,  longing  looks  toward  the  graves  of 
their  valiant  tribe,  and  sometimes  watch  the 
setting  sun  and  dream  of  beholding  the 
hunting  grounds  of  their  fathers  and  the  fair 
maidens  that  were  the  pride  of  the  Island. 
I  saw  the  dull  eye  of  the  only  one  now  left 
who  has  anything  of  the  nobility  of  the  tribe, 
flash  with  the  eagle  glance  of  pride  as  I  stood 
by  him  on  the  beach,  and  pointing  into  the 
far  blue  sky  above  him  asked  him  if  he  ever 


A    LEGEND    OF     MONTAUK.  107 

hoped  to  hunt  with  Wyandannee  in  the 
spirit-land.  He  rose  from  the  sand  and 
straightened  his  tall  form,  and  looking  into 
my  face,  with  a  strong  grasp  on  my  shoul 
der,  pointed  westward  with  a  sudden  and 
convulsive  motion  of  his  hand.  His  lips 
trembled  an  instant  as  if  laboring  to  convey 
some  words  of  fierce  eloquence,  then  he  be 
came  calm  again,  his  eye  dull,  his  form  bent, 
and  he  sank  back  on  the  sand,  a  pitiable 
representation  of  the  lords  of  the  soil.  Look 
ing  on  him,  you  would  have  dreamed  it  pos 
sible  *hat  he  was  the  descendant  of  the  Eagle 
of  the  North.  But  to  the  legend. 

It  was  three  hundred  years  ago.  In  the 
tempests  of  three  centuries  the  red  man  has 
been  swept  away,  and  the  storms  of  a  few 
more  hundred  years  will  sweep  away  his 
memory.  Let  us  strive  to  keep  their  valor 
and  their  nobleness  before  the  living  age, 
and  teach  our  children  tales  of  the  Indian 
warriors. — A  holy  embalmment  is  that  of  a 
memory  when  it  passes  into  household  le 
gends  and  fireside  tales. 


108       THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

Wyandanriee  was  the  great  chief  of  the 
Montauks.  (A  later  chief  of  this  name  was 
the  protege  of  Gardiner,  the  original  settler 
of  Gardiner's  Island.)  He  was  the  son  of  a 
chief  bearing  the  same  name.  His  father 
died  on  Shelter  Island,  and  was  borne  in 
solemn  state  to  the  great  burial  ground  on 
Montauk.  It  appears  that  shortly  after  this, 
the  chief  of  the  Manhasset  tribe  offered 
an  indignity  to  the  grave  of  the  old  chief, 
and  hence  arose  a  deadly  strife  that  resulted 
in  the  fierce  fight  I  am  about  to  relate,  as  I 
have  recently  heard  it  repeated.  As  usual 
in  Indian  legends,  a  prophet  maiden  must 
enter.  Saka  warned  Wyandannee  on  the 
shore  one  moony  night,  that  he  must  not 
leave  the  land.  They  stood  in  the  shade  of 
a  rock  some  three  miles  from  what  is  now 
called  Sag  Harbor,  and  she  begged  him  not 
to  enter  his  canoe  which  lay  on  the  beach. 
He  laughed  at  her  fears,  and  parting  from 
her  with  a  promise  of  a  return  with  a  load 
of  fish  and  game  for  their  lodge,  pushed 
gaily  out  into  the  moonlight.  Then  leaning 


A  LEGEND  OF  MOflTAUK.  109 

steadily  to  his  paddle,  the  bark  shot  swiftly 
across  toward  the  shore  of  Manchonock, 
(now  Gardiner's  Island.)  As  he*  passed  a 
point  of  the  island,  he  heard  the  twang  of  a 
bow-string,  and  an  arrow  flew  over  his  head. 
But  he  did  not  look  up,  nor  cease  his  steady 
stroke  with  the  paddle.  Perhaps  had  an  eye 
seen  his  face,  a  smile  of  derision  might  have 
been  found  on  it.  As  he  passed  on,  a  canoe 
shot  out  from  the  point,  and  the  moon 
showed  in  it  five  of  the  Manhasset  warriors. 
Wyandannee  saw  them  without  raising  his 
head  or  turning  his  body,  save  as  he  bent 
low  to  his  paddle.  There  was  no  apparent 
increase  of  speed  or  anxiety  on  his  part,  but 
had  you  been  with  him  you  might  have 
seen  that  smile  grow  strangely  settled  on 
his  face,  and  perhaps  a  steadier  arm  and 
longer  stroke  as  he  turned  shoreward. 
Scarcely  five  minutes  passed,  and  a  heavy 
surge  completely  overturned  the  pursuing 
bark.  Their  arrows  and  bows  floated  all 
over  the  waves,  and  a  half  hour  was  lost 


110       THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

in  gathering  them,  during  which  Wyandan- 
nee,  having  seen  the  accident,  had  turned 
his  course  Eastward,  and  keeping  close  to 
the  shore  pulled  steadily  out  toward  the  sea. 
Two  hours  later  he  saw  the  canoe  of  the 
Manhassets  some  miles  behind  him,  and 
then  pushed  swiftly  on.  He  thought  to  meet 
his  chosen  warriors  on  the  point,  and  so 
kept  on  until  they  gained  on  him  so  nearly 
as  to  be  just  out  of  bow-shot.  Then  every 
nerve  was  strained,  and  his  life-like  boat 
danced  from  wave  to  wave  like  a  bird.  The 
yells  of  the  pursuers  did  not  move  him. 
Once  and  only  once  he  raised  his  head  and 
listened  for  the  peculiar  surf  roar  which  he 
knew  was  the  voice  of  the  ocean  to  old  and 
hoary  Montauk,  and  so  plying  on  reached 
the  shore  precisely  where  now  the  sand  had 
been  thrown  up  into  a  jutting  point  some 
rods  from  the  Eastward  point.  Then  his 
yell  rang  over  the  ocean  and  the  land.  But 
no  answer  came  from  either.  No  friend 
was  near.  The  frightened  sea-gull  alone 


A   LEGEND  OF  MONTAUK.  Ill 

replied  with  a  wild  scream  as  she  rose  from 
her  sleep  on  the  wave.  The  Manhassets 
were  behind  him,  but  he  sprang  to  a  rock 
and  fixing  his  foot  firmly  on  it,  with  his 
back  to  another,  waited  their  coming. 

I  have  heard  the  story  varied  here.  Some 
saying  that  another  Montauk  warrior  came 
to  the  chieftain's  aid,  others  that  he  met  the 
foe  alone.  As  in  all  such  cases  I  have  been 
in  the  habit  of  preferring  the  most  incredi 
ble  story,  as  being  most  desirable  for  a  good 
legend,  I  shall  do  so  in  this. 

In  that  moment  of  expectation  the  Mon 
tauk  warrior  looked  to  heaven  and  thought 
of  Saka  and  her"  prophecy,  and  the  long, 
long  waiting  of  the  dove-eyed  girl  at  the 
door  of  the  lodge.  It  nerved  his  arm,  and 
the  first  wolf  of  the  foe  that  came  within  the 
sweep  of  his  hatchet,  went  down  under  that 
fierce  blow  and  lay  motionless  and  dead  be 
fore  him.  Another  and  another  fell  voice 
less  and  unmoving,  and  he ,  stood  behind 
their  bodies  untouched  and  fearless.  The 


THE    OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

moon  never  looked  down  on  such  a  scene 
before  nor  since,  on  old  Montauk.  It  was 
a  fierce  struggle  of  rage  and  blood.  No  words 
were  spoken,  no  sound  was  heard  but  the 
thunder  of  the  surf.  Across  the  pile  of  slain 
the  unwounded  Montauk's  eye  flashed 
fiercely  on  the  two  remaining  foes.  A  mo 
ment  passed,  and  one  of  them  sprang  over 
the  ghastly  barrier,  and  staggering  under  a 
blow  that  fell  deep  into  his  left  shoulder, 
wound  his  right  arm  around  the  legs  of  the 
Montauk  and  brought  him  almost  to  the 
ground.  As  he  staggered,  an  arrow  from 
the  last  of  the  enemy  entered  his  breast. 
He  leaped  forward  across  the  men  he  had 
slain,  hurled  his  hatchet  with  giant  force 
deep  into  the  skull  of  the  Manhasset  chief, 
and  then,  as  his  last  foe  fell  dead,  his  trium 
phant  cry  again  woke  the  sea-gull  and  went 
floating  away  over  the  rolling  sea. 

But  the  arrow  of  the  Manhasset  was  steal 
ing  away  his  life.  He  felt  that  death  was 
near.  The  moon  was  never  so  calm  and 
holy  in  his  eves,  the  surf  was  never  more 


A    LEGEND    OF    MONTAUK.  113 

melodious.  (The  sounds  of  life  are  always 
sweeter  to  the  dying) .  He  sat  down  on  the 
sand,  and  sang  his  death  song.  Its  burden 
was  the  story  of  his  battle-fields,  and  wounds 
in  fight  (for  though  young  he  was  all  over 
scarred) ;  and  then  he  chaunted  the  praises 
of  the  beloved  Saka  :  "  In  the  broad  forests 
of  the  spirit-land,  when  holier  moonbeams 
fall  on  more  melodious  waves,  on  the  green 
banks  of  bluer  brighter  seas,  we  shall  love 
on  with  spirit  love,  my  dark-eyed  bride." 

The  rnoon  went  down,  and  the  stars  were 
left  to  watch  the  scene.  As  the  bright  Alde- 
baran  rose  from  the  ocean,  the  death  song 
ceased.  Wyandannee  had  met  his  fathers. 

There  is  a  foot  print  in  the  rock,  which 
the  Indians  said  was  the  print  of  his  foot  in 
that  fierce  fight,  and  a  fountain  bubbles  up 
over  the  spot  where  he  died.  Another  story 
is,  that  the  foot  print  is  that  of  Manitou,  when 
he  came  down  to  visit  his  Red  children. 
You  may  believe  just  which  of  the  two  you 
prefer.  I  trust  my  story  has  not  weaned  you. 


LETTER  XV. 

BLOCK    ISLAND. 

STONINGTON,  Aug.  10,  1847. 

I  HAVE  preferred  this  time  to  wait  until  I 
could  sit  down  quietly  on  shore  and  write 
to  you.  It  is  somewhat  pleasanter  to  use 
one's  pen  seated  by  a  table  that  stands  se 
curely  on  four  legs,  than  to  scrawl  on  a 
sheet  of  paper  laid  on  a  deck  which  varies 
its  angle  with  the  horizon  from  45°  to  50° 
with  every  passing  wave.  My  writing,  none 
the  best  at  any  time,  becomes  then  a  suc 
cession  of  such  characters  as  no  well-bred 
spider  would  leave  on  the  paper,  had  he 
been  dipped  in  rny  ink  and  allowed  to 
travel  across  it 

I  was  to  tell  you  of  Block  Island. 
If  you  have  been  there,  you'll  appreciate 
the  richness  of  a  sail  to  it.  If  not,  then  by 
all  means  go. 


BLOCK  ISLAND.  115 

Go,  if  but  to  see  the  Ocean  in  all  its 
glory.  You  may  enjoy  it  from  a  ship's  deck, 
or  the  shore,  or  in  the  surf.  All  these  I 
know.  But  to  be  acquainted  with  the  Ocean, 
to  claim  a  sort  of  friendship  with  the  waves, 
trust  yourself  to  a  boat  that  will  feel  every 
wind  and  roll  gaily  to  every  billow,  and  dash 
the  cool  delicious  spray  over  you,  and  bound 
with  all  the  life  of  a  sea-bird  across  the  wa 
ter.  A  life  of  voyages  across  the  Ocean 
will  not  make  a  man  so  perfectly  at  home 
on  the  water  as  a  few  summers  spent  in  the 
way  that  we  are  now  spending  this. 

The  wind  blew  freshly  from  the  south 
west  as  we  left  the  Breakwater  at  day-light, 
and  the  sky  was  bluer  than  usual  after  the 
shower  in  the  night.  Watch  Hill  seemed 
to  be  winking  his  bright  eye  slowly,  and  I 
thought  kept  it  shut  longer  than  usual,  as  if 
he  was  terribly  tired  of  his  night's  duty,  and 
half  asleep  already.  (What  a  life-like  ap 
pearance  a  revolving  light  has  when  you 
observe  it  closely.)  In  an  hour  we  were 


116       THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

fairly  at  sea.  Are  you  tired  of  hearing  me 
speak  of  the  Ocean  ?  I  never  tire  of  look 
ing  at  it,  or  rolling  on  or  in  it.  Men  speak 
of  "  our  mother  the  earth."  But  I  never 
could  appreciate  the  metaphor.  A  hard 
mother  is  old  Terra.  She  refuses  us  food 
save  when  compelled  by  hard  struggling 
with  her,  and  then  yields  it  reluctantly.  She 
deceives  us  too  often  and  finally  takes  us, 
when  worn  and  weary,  to  her  bosom,  only 
by  the  difficult  digging  of  a  grave. 

But  the  ocean  is  mother-like,  singing) 
songs  to  us  continually,  and  telling  a  thou 
sand  legends  to  our  baby  ears.  She  casts 
up  toys  for  us  on  every  shore,  bright  shells 
and  pebbles.  (What  else  do  we  live  for  ?) ) 
True,  maniac  as  she  is,  she  sometimes  raves 
madly  and  hurls  her  children  from  her  arms, 
but  see  how  instantly  she  clasps  them  again 
close,  close  to  her  heaving  bosom,  and  how 
calmly  and  quietly  arid  holily  they  sleep 
there  as  she  sings  to  them,  nor  wake  again 
to  sorrow ! 


BLOCK    ISLAND.  117 

The  breeze  freshened  in  a  few  hours  con 
siderably.  We  loitered  away  the  forenoon 
in  fishing,  taking  some  seven  and  eight 
pound  blue-fish,  and  a  quantity  of  a  size  a 
little  smaller.  All  of  our  fish  that  day  ave 
raged  five  pounds. 

In  the  afternoon  we  had  made  some  forty 
miles  offing,  and  as  the  weather  looked 
squally,  we  drew  in  our  lines  and  ran  up 
for  Block  Island. 

To  imagine  our  pleasure,  you  should 
know  each  and  all  of  our  company.  I  de 
posited  myself  in  the  lee  scuppers  with 

Festus  in  my  hand.  J had  a,  rare  old 

copy  of  Grotius'  poems.  Willis  (Joe  is 
here  ;  what  would  I  do  without  him  ?)  who 
has  a  passion  for  the  more  modern,  had  the 
last  edition  of  Carlyle's  '  Past  and  Present :' 

S had  Schiller,  and  the  Doctor  had  the 

rudder.  But  little  reading  did  we.  It  seems 
to  me,  if  those  waves  are  running  yet  (and 
they  must  be  off  Labrador  by  this  time), 
they  are  still  echoing  our  loud  laughter. 


118       THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

Especially  when  the  spray  soaked  the  '  Past 
and  Present'  in  Joe's  hands  as  he  was 
reading,  "  Coped  with  the  star  galaxies ; 
paved  with  the  green  mosaic  of  earth  and 
sea — ."  It  was  just  then  the  water  blinded 
him,  and  when  he  looked  at  his  book  it  was 
as  salt  as  a  mackerel. 

We  made  the  island  before  sunset  and 
anchored  in  the  offing.  Leaving  two  of 
our  party  on  board  for  the  night  in  case  it 
should  blow  on  shore  (when  it  would  be 
necessary  to  slip  the  cable  and  run  out  to 
sea  or  to  get  to  leeward  of  the  land),  J.  and 
Willis  and  myself  went  ashore.  Our  first 
operation  was  to  clean  and  salt  the  fish  we 
had  taken,  which  we  did  with  the  help  of 
the  islanders ;  and  then  climbing  the  bank 
or  steep  hill  rising  almost  directly  from  the 
shore  made  our  way  to  Card's  tavern,  a 
snug  old  fashioned  and  quite  comfortable 
house,  where  we — ate  !  How  we  did  eat ! 
They  were  good  cooks.  We  had  the  dain 
ties  of  the  season,  viz. :  blue-fish  just  out  of 


BLOCK    ISLAND.  119 

water,  and  broiled  secundtim  artem,  with 
plenty  of  sweet  butter  and  fresh  eggs,  which 
are  certainly  better  laid  by  the  Block  Island 
hens  than  by  any  other  gallinaceous  femi- 
nines  in  the  world.  (Why  they  are  better 
I  don't  know,  but  it's  a  fact.  Connoisseurs 
in  eggs  can  readily  distinguish  them  from 
any  others  in  this  meridian.)  Add  to  this 
bill  of  fare  the  unfailing  "  ash-loaf"  of  corn 
bread,  raked  up  in  the  embers  of  the  tug  to 
bake  slowly  during  the  night  (delicious  for 
breakfast),  and  you  have  a  table  fit  for  Api- 
cius. 

This  "  tug,"  a  species  of  peat  found  on  the 
island,  is  almost  their  only  fuel,  for  there  are 
no  trees  of  any  size,  and  anthracite  is  yet 
unknown.  It  burns  with  a  disagreeable 
odor,  imparting  its  fragrance  to  the  dress 
and  persons  of  islanders,  who  can  be  as 
readily  distinguished  by  the  nose  as  by  the 
eye  ;  or  the  ear  either  for  that  matter,  for 
their  peculiar  nasal  twang  is  strikingly  cha 
racteristic. 


120  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

As  you  may  imagine,  the  inhabitants  of 
Block  Island  are  "  of  their  own  kind."  You 
must  see  them  to  know  them.  Within  the 
past  few  years  they  have  vastly  changed. 
Ten  years  ago  a  Block  Islander  was  a  pro 
verb  for  a  drunkard.  Now  they  are  all  tem 
perance  men  (at  least  in  name,  for  I  confess 
to  overhearing  a  suspicious  request  from  a 
boat-load  of  fishermen  that  hailed  us  in  the 
offing). 

They  have  no  wharves,  for  there  is  no 
bay  nor  place  for  a  wharf  on  the  island. 
The  everlasting  thunder  of  the  Atlantic 
shakes  the  foundation  of  the  land.  It  rolls 
on  shore  from  Europe  and  Africa,  unbroken 
till  it  breaks  here.  Those  three  great  waves 
that  told  of  the  earthquake  at  Lisbon,  which 
it  was  said  bore  the  tidings  of  that  fearful 
scene  across  the  ocean,  must  have  shaken 
the  island  to  its  base. 

Strange  that  men  born  and  living  thus  on 
the  shore  of  God's  vast  sea,  should  not  be 
worshippers  by  nature ! 


BLOCK  ISLAND.  121 

They  have  no  boats  here  which  may  not 
be  drawn  up  on  shore  out  of  the  reach  of 
storm  or  tide.  What  craft  they  have,  are 
admirably  adapted  to  living  in  bad  weather, 
having  great  breadth  of  beam  with  high 
weather  boards,  and  being  very  deep, 
schooner  rigged,  usually  without  a  jib,  the 
foremast  being  stepped  quite  forward,  or  "  in 
the  eyes"  of  the 'boat. 

As  evening  closed  in,  the  weather  began 
to  thicken,  and  it  now  blew  a  gale.  We 
walked  to  the  beach,  and  looked  at  the  little 
Phantom  as  she  rode  half  a  mile  off.  She 
was  gaily  dancing  on  the  water,  ever  and 
anon  throwing  up  a  shower  of  white  foam 
from  under  her  bow,  and  we  pitied  the  Doc 
tor  and  S ,  as  we  saw  a  fair  prospect  of 

their  having  a  run  out  to  sea.  The  scene 
had  become  grand  indeed.  The  surf  roar 
was  terrific,  and  the  waves  went  leaping 
along  as  far  as  we  could  see  out  in  the  offing, 
like  a  host  of  monsters  chasing  each  other. 
I  remembered  an  exclamation  of  a  friend, 


122  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

made  some  weeks  ago  at  Long  Branch,  as 
we  looked,  one  beautiful,  sunshiny  morning, 
at  the  waves.  "  See,"  said  he,  pointing  to  a 
white  crest  far  out  at  sea ;  "  see  that  foam 
cap !  Do  you  remember  Eschylus  calls  it 
yelaa;^  the  laughter  of  the  wave  ?"  But  it  was 
wild  laughter  now.  The  laughter  of  fiends.  I 
trembled  for  the  Phantom.  While  we  were 
watching  her,  I  saw  a  lantern  in  her  rigging, 
and  guessed  that  the  Doctor  was  making  all 
ready  for  a  run. 

Directly  I  saw  the  sail  rise  a  little  way. 
He  had  four  reefs  in  it.  A  moment  more 
and  the  beautiful  thing  raised  her  head  on 
a  wave,  and  turning  swiftly  around,  shot 
into  the  gloom,  to  leeward.  A  half  hour  later 
I  thought  I  saw  a  light  in  the  offing  as  if  she 
was  beating  up  again ;  but  a  dense  mist  and 
rain  drove  me  from  the  beach. 

Shall  I  tell  you  where  I  found  J when 

I  returned?  Sitting  in  the  old  kitchen  at 
Card's  sedately  and  dignifiedly  stirring  cof 
fee  in  a  large  pan,  and  looking  demurely 
into  one  of  the  prettiest  faces  you  or  he 


BLOCK  ISLAND.  123 

ever  dreamed  of,  while  a  pleasant  voice  sang 
a  plaintive  song  that  perfectly  delighted  us 
all.  It  was  apropos  too  ;  "  The  Sailor  boy's 
grave."  And  a  merry  party  we  made  in  that 

old  kitchen.  J -'s  coffee  was  admirable, 

as  we  voted  the  next  morning.  You  should 
know  him  to  enjoy  the  oddity  of  his  appear 
ance  over  that  tug  fire  and  coffee  pan.  How 
he  winked  his  bright  eye  as  the  smoke  filled 
it !  Tears  followed  :  but  whether  the  song 
(it  was  indeed  a  sweet  one  from  a  sweet 
voice)  or  the  smoke  caused  them,  I  can't 
say.  I  slept  too  sound  that  night  to  dream 
of .  the  PhantomJ  The  gale  moaned  and 
shrieked  all  night.  Now,  as  fitfully  as  a  sick 
child  wailing,  and  now  as  mournfully  as  the 
weeping  of  a  mother  over  her  first-born. 
The  surf  thundered  on  the  shore,  and  surf- 
roar  and  tempest  united,  made  it  a  fearful 
night.  And  yet  I  slept. 


LETTER  XVI. 

THE  FIRE-SHIP. 

STONINGTON,  Aug.  10th,  1847. 

THE  wind  went  down  toward  morning, 
but  the  weather  continued  thick  and  we 
saw  nothing  of  the  Phantom.  Still  we  had 
no  fear  of  her  safety,  for  the  Doctor  often 
rode  out  worse  gales  in  her  than  this.  By 
noon  the  clouds  broke  away  and  we  had  a 
gleam  of  sunshine,  but  it  afterwards  settled 
into  a  sort  of  autumn  day,  cloudy  and 
squally.  About  one  o'clock  the  Phantom 
hove  in  sight,  and  ran  up  to  her  old  anchor 
age.  We  went  out  to  her  toward  evening, 
although  the  surf  ran  tremendously.  But 
we  thought  it  no  more  than  fair  to  relieve 

the  Doctor  and  S ,  whom  we  found  in 

excellent  health  and  spirits,  but  outrageous 
ly  hungry.  Having  been  unable  to  cook 
anything  they  had  confined  their  eating  to 
biscuit  and  cold  ham,  which  S thought 


THE    FIRE-SHIP.  125 

hard  fare.  His  round  face  had  a  look  of 
gloom  on  it  wh&h  went  to  my  heart.  I 
avoided  any  mention  of  the  blue-fish  and 
eggs  and  ash-loaf,  but  commending  him  to 
Card's  good  care  and  declining  Willis's 
company,  J and  myself  drew  in  the  an 
chor,  and  the  Phantom  dashed  merrily  out 
to  sea.  We  had  taken  the  precaution  to 
supply  our  larder  as  well  as  possible  before 
coming  out,  and  therefore  had  little  care  for 
the  night  on  that  score. 

It  was  a  lonely  and  yet  a  pleasant  even 
ing  that  which  we  passed  on  the  sea  to 
gether.  Lonely,  because  we  two  were  cut 
off  from  all  the  world,  but  we  lacked  no 
company.  The  clouds  and  the  wind  and 
the  swift  waves  were  company,  and  our 
hearts  leaped  merrily,  for  we  were  positively 

happy.     J has  escaped  from  the  weight 

of  office  duties,  and  I  had  been  waiting  for 
just  such  a  time  to  talk  with  him  of  matters 
of  deep  interest  to  both  of  us.  The  sea  be 
came  more  quiet  and  the  wind  lulled,  so 


126       THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

that  at  about  ten  o'clock  we  ran  back  to  our 
anchorage,  and  our  boat*  lay  slowly  rising 
and  falling  and  rolling  on  the  waves. 

We  then  lay  across  the  deck  for  awhile 
and  peered  into  the  gloom  to  seaward, 
vainly  striving  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
Fire  Ship. 

This  Fire  Ship  is  a  part  of  the  creed  of  a 
Block  Islander,  and  (the  truth  is  to  be  ac 
knowledged)  there  is  something  very  odd 
about  her.  Others  than  the  islanders  have 
believed  in  it.  Dr.  Mitchell  once  visited 
the  island  for  the  sake  of  examining  and  re 
porting  on  the  apparition,  and  if  I  mistake 
not  did  so  do,  and  his  account  is  published 
in  the  transactions  of  some  Society  in  New 
York. 

Some  severity  years  ago  a  ship  appeared 
in  the  offing  of  Block  Island.  (I  give  the 
story  now  as  I  heard  it  first.  It  has  a  vari 
ety  of  shades,  as  all  such  legends  have,  and 
is  told  in  fifty  ways.)  She  was  a  noble 
vessel,  with  sky  scrapers  set,  and  the  island- 


THE  FIRE-SHIP.  127 

ers  watched  her  till  she  disappeared  in  the 
gloom  of  night.  She  was  then  but  a  few 
miles  distant,  hove  to,  the  wind  blowing 
fresh  from  the  west.  As  night  thickened, 
they  saw  her  lights  gleaming  on  the  water, 
but  before  midnight  all  was  dark  save  one 
bright  light  in  her  rigging. 

An  islander  sat  on  the  beach  watching 
that  light.  He  heard  a  voice,  even  at  that 
distance,  and  the  shrill  whistle  of  the  boat 
swain,  but  even  as  he  heard  it  a  dark  cloud 
swept  with  the  sea  wind  across  the  horizon 
and  a  dense  mist  hid  the  light  from  his 
view.  Fifteen  minutes  might  have  passed 
and  again  the  light  was  visible.  At  the  in 
stant  that  his  eye  caught  it  a  sheet  of  flame 
rose  from  the  deck  of  the  vessel  and  every 
spar  and  rope  gleamed  against  the  cloud. 
In  a  moment  the  watcher  started  from  the 
beach  and  alarmed  the  inhabitants,  and 
they  gathered  on  the  shore  and  watched 
the  flames  as  they  leaped  along  the  spars  of 
the  noble  ship.  A  half  hour  passed  and 


128       THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

the  crew  of  the  burning  vessel,  doubtless 
had  by  this  time  taken  to  their  boats.  The 
wind  had  entirely  lulled,  and  when  the  tall 
thin  spire  of  flame  caught  the  sail  which  had 
been  fluttering  on  the  main  royal,  there  was 
not  air  enough  moving  to  break  off  the  spar, 
but  burned  it  to  a  thin  line  of  fire,  and  then 
crumbled  and  fell  in  a  shower  of  coals.  At 
this  moment  the  eye  of  an  islander  saw  a 
strange  commotion  in  the  clouds  which 
were  lit  up  by  the  blaze  of  the  burning  ship, 
and  beyond  her,  out  in  the  offing  the 
foam  leaped  from  the  crests  of  the  wave, 
showing  that  a  squall  was  coming. 

On  it  came,  tearing  up  the  sea  before  it, 
whirling  the  clouds  into  all  fantastic  shapes 
and  driving  the  spray  like  a  white  wall  of 
water  on,  till  it  reached  the  blazing  ship. 
Away  to  leeward  flew  flakes  of  fire  and 
streams  of  flame,  and  burning  rigging  and 
bright  gleaming  spars.  An  instant  the  gal 
lant  vessel  staggered  and  bowed  to  the  tem 
pest,  then  flew  like  a  wild  bird  swiftly  to- 


THE    FIRE-SHIP.  129 

ward  the  shore.  It  was  a  fearful  sight,  that 
mass  of  fire  and  flame  bounding  over  the 
ocean.  An  awe  fell  on  all  that  saw  it,  and 
the  watchers  on  the  surf-beaten  shore  sat 
silently  side  by  side,  and  fixed  their  affright 
ed  gaze  on  the  phantom-like  ship  that 
swept  shoreward  in  such  magnificent  array. 
No  thought  now  of  the  spoils  of  the  week, 
no  thoughts  of  the  lives  of  gallant  men,  no 
thought  of  anything  but  that  frightful  vision 
that  seemed  to  be  a  curse  of  God,  a  bolt 
from  his  hand  flying  on  toward  the  Island. 
Five,  ten  minutes  might  she  have  been 
driving  thus  before  the  gale,  and  had  neared 
the  Island  within  but  a  short  distance,  when 
suddenly  she  stopped,  or  seemed  to  stop  in 
her  wild  flight.  There  was  a  flash,  blind 
ing  and  fierce  as  the  lightning  of  heaven, 
a  thousand  brilliant  spars  and  burning  tim 
bers  filled  the  air,  and  deep  darkness,  the 
very  blackness  of  darkness  settled  on  the 
sea.  Ten  times  had  the  heart  of  the 
watcher  on  the  rock  sent  the  blood  through 

7 


130  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

his  trembling  body,  when  a  sound  came 
over  the  sea  that  shook  the  Island  as  it 
never  shook  in  the  surf-thunder. 

From  that  day  to  this  the  Block  Islanders 
have  believed  that  they  see  the  spectral 
fire  ship  in  stormy  nights,  and  that  its  com 
ing  foretells  some  disaster.  One  and  all 
believe  it  as  they  believe  there  is  an  ocean, 
and  I  have  seen  many  of  them,  young  and 
old,  who  say  they  have  seen  it.  Indeed  I 
never  saw  an  islander  who  had  not,  and  the 
young  lady  whose  song  I  had  told  you  of 

in  my  last,  told  J as  he  sat  stirring  that 

coffer  that  she  had  twice  seen  it  with  her 
own  blue  eyes.  I  was  especially  amused  by 

the  earnest  manner  in  which  J said  "  I 

don't  doubt  it."  I  have  become  satisfied 
myself  that  they  do  see  something  strange 
in  the  mist.  Persons  from  the  main  land 
who  have  come  off  here  to  make  an  exami 
nation,  say  that  they  saw  it  distinctly,  and 
if  you  wish  to  forfeit  all  respect  of  a  Block 
Islander,  express  a  doubt  of  the  truth  of  the 


THE  FIRE-SHIP.  131 

apparition,  and  you  are  set  down  as  unwor 
thy  of  attention.  Whether  the  vision  be  a 
strange  conformation  of  the  mists,  owing  to 
peculiar  currents  of  air  or  not,  and  if  so, 
what  the  cause  of  these  currrents  can  be,  I 
leave  you  to  imagine.  I  heard  an  old  man 
say  he  had  seen  it  often,  every  spar  and  rope 
and  timber  being  distinct  and  bright,  and 
that  he  had  watched  it  a  half  hour  at  a  time 
as  it  lay  rolling  in  the  offing. 

But  I  left  my  running  account  of  the  day 
and  night  to  tell  this  story.  J- and  my 
self  lay  on  deck  and  watched  for  the  fire 
ship,  but  it  did  not  come.  We  talked 
earnestly,  for  we  had  earnest  matters  to  talk 
of;  our  own  plans  for  the  future,  the  plans 
of  others,  and  finally  we  dropped  into  our 
accustomed  vein  of  discussion  and  talked 
of  metaphysics  till  the  hands  of  our  watches 
stood  together  at  12.  I  then  went  below 
(our  boat  has  a  beautiful  cabin,  being  as 
pleasant  a  yacht  as  you  can  imagine)  and 
set  some  eatables  on  the  table.  J.  came 
down  and  we  ate  heartily  and  went  on 


132       THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

deck  again  with  cloaks  and  blankets,;  and 
were  soon  rocked  to  sleep  by  our  ocean 
mother. 

The  gale  continued  to  blow  on  Saturday, 
rendering  it  impossible  for  us  to  reach 
Stonington  again.  We  therefore  passed 
Sunday  as  quietly  as  possible  on  our  boat. 
We  had  the  best  of  reading  for  the  day,  and 
after  dinner  we  set  Willis  to  reading  a  ser 
mon  or  two  from  Tupper's  Proverbial  Phi 
losophy.  Monday  was  clear  and  glorious. 
We  left  the  Island  at  daylight,  fished 
all  day,  arid  lay  to  off  the  North  East 
point  of  Gardener's  Island  at  night.  On 
Tuesday  we  ran  with  a  fresh  wind  into 
Stonington  again. 


LETTER  XVII. 

THE  SOUND. 

NEW  YORK,  August,  1847. 

I  could  not  sleep  the  night  that  I  came 
through  the  Sound,  although  I  was  weary 
enough,  and  anxious  to  forget  myself  if  it 
were  possible.  So  I  strolled  up  and  down 
the  deck  almost  all  night,  reading  occasion 
ally  for  a  half  hour,  and  then  walking 
another  half  hour. 

I  know  of  no  pleasanter  employment  than 
looking  in  faces  and  (avoiding  the  imperti 
nence  of  staring)  trying  to  guess  out  the 
meaning  of  lines  that  we  see  on  them. 
I  have  especially  been  thus  interested  in 
going  through  the  Sound.  No  line  of  boats, 
as  far  as  my  experience  goes,  in  the  United 
States,  carries  as  intelligent  and  respectable 
passengers  in  the  cabin  as  the  Stonington 
line,  unless  I  except  the  Fall  River  line,  of 


134       THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

which  I  know  but  little.  Among  these  I 
never  failed  to  find  those  who  were  remarka 
ble  for  some  expression  of  face,  perhaps  of 
happiness,  more  likely  of  sorrow,  for  the  sor 
row  of  life  seems  by  far  to  overbalance  the 
joy.  I  heard  a  gentleman  remark  to  Willis, 
"  The  boats  ought  not  to  make  the  attempt  to 
run  through  the  Sound  in  storms  or  fogs.  It 
is  a  risk  of  which  there  is  no  need,  and  they 
should  never  leave  the  wharf  except  in  per 
fectly  safe  weather." 

"  My  dear  Sir,"  said  Willis,  "  there  are  on 
this  boat  to-night  more  than  two  hundred 
cabin  passengers.  If  you  knew  the  object 
which  each  of  these  passengers  has  in  going 
through  the  Sound  to-night,  I  will  venture 
to  say  you  would  find  more  than  fifty  who 
would  give  five  hundred  dollars  each  to  be 
taken  through,  fog  or  storm,  rock  or  wave 
notwithstanding.  ^How  many  do  you  sup 
pose  are  hastening  to  death-beds,  to  catch 
the  last  words  of  some  beloved  one?  How 
many  are  carrying  the  fortunes  of  their 
families,  the  actual  pecuniary  fortunes  of 


THE    SOUND. 


135 


themselves  or  others  ?  Rest  assured,  Sir, 
there  is  anxiety  enough  on  this  boat,  actual 
agony  at  this  delay,  to  warrant  officers  in 
running  great  risks,  and  the  officers  feel 
their  responsibility  to  both  classes  of  passen 
gers.'^  The  remark  is  worth  thinking  of. 

As  1  stood  in  the  car-house  at  Stoning- 
ton  while  the  Boston  passengers  were  going 
from  cars  to  boat,  I  saw  a  gentleman  and 
lady  supporting  between  them  a  young  lady, 
whose  pale,  calm  face  told  of  a  soul  fixed  in 
its  contemplation  on  a  quiet  rest,  the  rest  of 
death.  A  half  hour  later  I  saw  them  seated 
in  the  Saloon,  and  I  passed  them  repeatedly 
as  I  walked  up  and  down,  looking,  when  I 
had  opportunity,  into  their  faces.  There  was 
a  something  familiar  to  me  in  all  of  them,  yet 
I  could  not  make  out  what  it  was.  At  length 
it  flashed  across  rny  mind. 

Two  years  ago  I  was  coming  down  the 
lakes  in  one  of  the  magnificent  steamers 
which  ply  on  those  waters.  I  had  my  horse 
with  me,  a  tried  companion,  who  had  car 
ried  me  three  hundred  miles  in  five  days 


136  THE  OWL,  CKEEK  LETTERS. 

previous,  resting  over  one  Sunday  (hot 
weather  it  was  too),  swimming  and  fording 
over  twenty  rivers  or  large  creeks,  and  at 
length  resting  himself,  in  good  condition,  on 
the  forward  deck  of  the  boat.  I  was  stand 
ing  on  the  upper  deck,  looking  down  at 
him,  when  I  heard  an  exclamation  of  de 
light  at  my  side.  "  Father,  come  and  look 
at  this  horse.  Does^nt  he  look  like  our 
Jack?" 

I  turned  and  saw  the  face  of  a  young  lady, 
remarkable  for  an  expression  of  overflowing 
joy,  a  face  such  as  Dr.  Cummings  of  Scot 
land  called  in  one  of  his  great  speeches,  "  a 
love  letter  to  the  whole  human  family." 

As  she  continued  to  converse  with  her 
father,  I  learned  that  they  were  from  the 
East,  travelling  on  her  account.  The  idea 
of  disease  being  concealed  under  that  joy 
ous  face  was  almost  too  strange  to  be  credi 
ble.  I  met  her  repeatedly  on  the  boat,  and 
always  with  the  bounding  step  and  free 
light  motion  of  gay,  happy,  life-loving 
youth. 


THE    SOUND.  137 

At  length  the  boat  touched  at  Erie,  in. 
Pennsylvania,  a*nd  lay  an  hour  or  more.  I 
walked  up  into  the  town,  and  being  given 
to  the  admiration  of  flowers  and  fruits, 
stopped  in  front  of  a  fine  garden  and  ad 
mired  its  appearance.  A  gentleman  politely 
asked  me  to  walk  in,  and  I  did  so ;  he 
showed  me  his  place,  and  then  cut  a  num 
ber  of  flowers  and  handed  them  to  me,  with 
which  I  returned  to  the  boat.  It  was  a  glo 
rious  summer  evening  as  we  left  the  wharf. 
The  sun  had  not  yet  set,  but  before  we 
were  out  of  the  harbor,  it  went  down ;  and 
[  was  standing  watching  the  sky  when  a 
lady  stepped  toward  me  and  begged  to  be 
allowed  to  examine  the  flowers  I  held  in 
my  hand.  1  handed  them  to  her  of  course, 
and  then  saw  that  she  was  the  mother  of 
the  young  lady  I  had  seen  so  often.  After 
they  had  examined  them,  they  returned 
them  to  me.  I  took  them,  and  making  the 
politest  bow  in  my  power,  begged  the  mo 
ther  to  allow  me  to  present  them  to  her 


138       THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

daughter,  who  received  them  with  a  smile 
of  thanks,  and  I  turned  away  to  see  to  the 
comfort  of  Iran. 

A  few  moments  aftejrward,  the  father  of 
the  lady,  who  stood  near  me  on  the  upper 
deck  forward,  addressed  a  remark  to  me 
about  my  horse,  and  a  conversation  follow 
ed,  an  exchange  of  names,  a  discovery  that 
we  knew  some  of  the  same  people  in  New 
England,  and  an  introduction  to  his  family. 

Perhaps  I  have  been  too  particular  in  de 
scribing  the  manner  of  my  introduction  to 
them,  but  every  incident  remained  deeply 
impressed  on  my  mind,  and  our  last  meet 
ing  was  so  unexpected,  that  I  remember 
them  now  vividly.  The  next  morning  we 
were  in  Buffalo,  and  I  did  not  see  them. 
The  next  afternoon  I  was  watching  the  sun 
set  from  the  tower  at  Niagara,  when  the 
same  party  came  unexpectedly  up  the 
winding  stair,  I  could  do  no  otherwise  than 
join  them.  It  was  Sunday  evening.  A 
holy  place  is  Niagara  to  spend  a  Sabbath. 
How  the  'torrent  worships  God  ! 


THE    SOUND.  139 

They  were  New  Englanders,  and  (almost 
of  course),  religious  people.  (I  don't  like 
that  word  religious,  let  me  say  Christian.)  I 
had  a  host  of  friends  there,  but  none  with 
whom  I  could  pass  as  pleasant  a  Sabbath 
evening  as  with  them.  We  talked  of  the 
majesty  of  God,  as  we  listened  to  the  thun 
der  of  the  Fall.  I  was  deeply  interested  in 
the  pure  and  perfect  faith  which  I  found  in 
the  mind  of  the  young  lady  of  whom  I  am 
particularly  writing. 

/  "  I  should  like  to  die   here,"    said    she ;  > 
7  Heaven  can't  be  far  from  such  a  scene  or> 
s  power." 

I  saw  a  shade  fall  over  the  mother's  face 
as  she  overheard  this  remark,  but  I  smiled 
and  spoke  of  the  beauty  of  our  belief 
that  Heaven  was  never  far  off. 

The  next  morning  I  was  about  mounting 
Iran,  when  I  heard  a  merry  voice,  and  turn 
ing  saw  that  my  friends  were  about  leaving 
in  the  morning  train.  We  parted  with 
smiles  and  hopes  of  meeting  again.  We 
met  next  on  the  Vanderbilt,  as  I  have  told 


God' 

f  -r 


140       THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

you  in  the  commencement  of  this  letter.  In 
the  former  meeting  I  was  bronzed  by  long 
exposure  to  the  sun,  and  my  beard  was 
heavy,  and  only  shaveii  from  the  upper  and 
under  lip.  I  had  now  a  clean  face,  and 
was  not  much  tanned.  It  was  not  strange 
they  did  not  recognise  me.  If  their  eyes 
meet  this  letter,  I  am  well  assured  they  will 
pardon  the  liberty  I  take  in  recalling  the 
pleasure  of  our  meeting  at  Niagara,  and  on 
the  Lakes. 

They  are  still  travelling,  the  world  over, 
in  search  of  health.  God  grant  they  may 
find  a  life-giving  air  somewhere  for  that 
fair  girl.  The  smile  was  gone  from  her 
face.  Her  eye  seemed,  as  I  have  said,  to  be 
fixed  on  the  far  off  land,  whereunto  her 
weary  feet  are  even  now,  I  fear,  tending.  Yet 
if  her  faith  be  as  it  was  when  we  stood  to 
gether  on  the  frail  bridge  over  the  Fall,  and 
looked  first  down  into  the  deep,  then  up  to 
Heaven :  if  she  looks  still  with  yearning 
gaze  into  the  blue  sky  as  to  her  holier 
home,  the  home  of  hope  and  love  and  God : 


THE    SOUND.  141 

if  still  her  foot  is  firm  in  the  path  she  then 
trod  joyously  with  songs  and  smiles,  though 
now  with  saddened  expectation,  then  am  I 
sure  that  wherever  God's  voice  reaches  her, 
on  land  or  sea,  in  America  or  in  a  far 
country,  it  will  be  to  her  a  voice  of  wel 
come,  and  she  will  press  her  feverish  lip  on 
her  mother's  forehead,  .and  unclasping  the 
arm  I  saw  wound  around  her  father's  neck, 
bathe  those  lips  in  the  river  of  life,  open  her 
blue  eye  on  bluer  skies,  and  her  sweet  voice 
be  loud  and  clear  among  the  Seraphim  ! 
God  go  with  you,  friends !  {&£*—  - 


LETTER  XVIII 

A    MEMORY    OF   THE    OLD    CONGRESS. 

SARATOGA,  Aug.  16th,  1847. 

I  HAD  almost  determined  not  to  write  to 
you  from  this  section  of  country  at  all;  for 
the  ordinary  subject  matter  of  letters  is  so 
much  the  same  old  story  of  amusements 
and  time-murdering,  that  I  imagine  your 
readers  could  not  be  much  interested  in 
what  I  might  say.  But  the  notes  of  a 
looker-on  may  be  worth  as  much,  if  not 
more  than  those  of  one  who  joins  the  whirl 
of  gaiety. 

And  after  some  days  of  gazing  at  the 
thousands  who  are  around  me,  my  usual 
morning  ride  being  ended,  with  no  compan 
ion  but  my  horse,  my  old  and  tried  com 
panion  of  whom  I  spoke  to  you  in  my  last, 
and  who  is  now  rusticating  with  me,  I  am 
at  a  loss  for  employment  for  an  hour,  and 
will  even  write  to  you. 


A    MEMORY    OF  THE  OLD  CONGRESS.         143 

Do  not  expect  to  hear  of  the  gaieties  of 
Saratoga.  I  am  not  here  to  enjoy  them. 
It  is  a  long  while  since  I  sickened  of  them ; 
and  although  every  summer  finds  me  here 
more  or  less,  it  is  with  reluctance  that  I 
come,  and  only  to  meet  those  whom  I  could 
not  otherwise  see.  For  sketches  of  balls 
and  hops  (the  standing  amusements  of  those 
who  are  at  loss  for  brains  to  kill  time  other 
wise)  I  refer  you  to  others.  I  am  decidedly 
an  advocate  for  dancing.  It  seems  to  me  a 
harmless  way  of  making  a  fool  of  one's  self, 
when  that  is  the  object  (and  it  is  the  object 
of  most  pleasure-seekers  of  the  day) .  It  is  so 
much  easier  to  use  one's  heels  than  one's 
head,  that  people  desirous  of  escaping  all  ex 
ertion  may  well  be  excused  for  avoiding  men 
tal  labor,  though  at  the  expense  of  bodily 
fatigue.  Did  you  ever  pass  the  windows  of 
a  room  in  which  there  was  dancing,  and 
watch  the  figures  when  you  could  not  hear 
the  music  ?  Try  it  sometimes,  and  if  the 
graceful  movements  of  the  dance  do  not 


144       THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

become  positively  ludicrous,  then  I  am  no 
judge.  Do  you  ask  how  I  would  pass  time 
more  pleasantly?  Come  with  me,  rny 
friend,  and  let  us  stroll  up  and  down  this 
long  piazza  of  the  Congress,  and  talk  awhile 
of  the  past  and  the  present. 

I  have  a  love  for  this  same  old  colonnade. 
A  thousand  memories  linger  here.  The 
young,  the  lovely,  the  light  hearted  of  many 
years  have  walked  this  same  round,  and  lis 
tened  and  spoken  the  words  of  faith  and 
hope  that  are  spoken  now  so  lightly,  and  so 
easily  forgotten  by  the  gay  haunters  of  yon 
der  brick  hotel.  It  seems  to  me  that  a  very 
few  years  have  effected  a  great  change  in  the 
character  of  the  visitors  at  Saratoga.  It  is 
now  of  a  lighter,  gayer  sort.  Even  the  dance 
seems  to  have  become  more  airy  and  less 
solemn  than  it  used  to  be.  iWhen  I  first 
frequented  Saratoga,  "  flirtations"  were  less 
frequent,  love  was  a  serious  matter,  and 
many  a  happy  life  of  affection  began,  where 
we  now  stand.  \  The  old  Congress  is  a  sa- 


A  MEMORY  OF  THE  OLD  CONGRESS.          145 

cred  place  with  me,  and  I  prefer  it  still,  for 
the  sake  of  these  associations.  Stand  with 
me  by  this  pillar,  and  I'll  tell  you  a  love 
story. 

It  will  be  ten  years  next  month,  since  I 
stood  here,  as  we  now  stand,  with  two 
friends.  How  well  I  loved  them  !  The  one 
was  a  young  man,  my  friend:  a  senior  in 
Princeton,  passing  his  vacation  before  com 
mencement,  at  the  Springs.  The  other  was 
a  gentle  girl.  There  is  none  here  like  her, 
none  half  so  lovely.  I  should  incur  the 
severe  condemnation  of  some  fifty  ladies, 
to  whom  I  bow  each  day,  did  they  know 
that  I  am  the  writer  of  this  letter,  when  I 
say  that  I  never  saw  as  little  beauty  at  Sara 
toga  as  this  summer.  Out  of  some  hundreds 
of  ladies,  there  are  not  twenty  that  bear 
looking  at  twice.  But,  perhaps,  my  taste 
has  left  me,  and  I  am  no  judge.  Certainly, 

I  have  seen  none  to  compare  with  L . 

She  was  a  fairy  child  of  seventeen.  Her 
eye  was  blue  as  heaven,  and  had  in  it  a 


146       THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

winning  earnestness,  that  made  her  ten 
times  more  lovely.  She  was  the  worship  of 
a  host  of  admirers.  Her  seat  in  the  drawing 
room  was  always  surrounded  by  a  crowd, 
and  she  never  lacked  for  a  word  or  a  smile 
where  it  was  deserved,  or  a  cold  bow  where 
that  was  desirable. 

I  have  said  she  was  a  fairy  in  form.  Her 
foot  fell  as  lightly  on  the  carpet  (as  Long 
fellow  said  of  Preciosa),  "as  a  sunbeam  on 
the  water."  Every  movement  was  grace, 
every  laugh  a  thrill  of  melody.  Her  song 
was  a  gush  of  such  overflowing  sweetness 
as  I  never  heard  surpassed ;  no,  nor  equalled. 
That  song  haunts  this  spot  on  which  we 
stand.  I  linger  here  in  the  night  to  listen 
to  it.  It  is  this  that  makes  me  love  the  Old 
Congress ! 

We  stood  together  that  night,  having  es 
caped  the  crowded  ball  room,  and  by  this 

very  pillar,  my  friend  and  L exchanged 

the  words  of  parting  which  are  apt  to  be  ex 
changed  between  those  who  love.     It  was 


A   MEMORY  OF  THE  OLD  CONGRESS.        147 

an  ordinary  parting.  No  tears,  nothing  but 
smiles.  He  was  to  return  to  Princeton,  at 
tend  commencement,  return  to  the  Springs, 
and  they  were  to  go  to  Niagara  together. 
Her  father,  a  man  of  great  wealth,  and  de 
voted  to  his  daughter,  stood  yonder  watch 
ing  us.  I  remember  the  scene  well,  how 
well ! 

"  Do  not  let  them  make  you  forget  me," 
said  Fred,  with  a  srnile.  "  A  week  is  a  long 
time  to  be  away,  and  you  may  be  wooed 
and  won  by  some  one  in  that  time.  You 
remember  the  girl  who  was  wooed,  won, 
arid  married  in  a  day  !" 

"Don't  speak  so,  Fred,"  said  she;  "I 
don't  like  to  speak  of  forgetting  even  in  that 
way." 

"Well,  I  will  not  then.  Expect  me  on 
Saturday.  Good  bye !  and  he  passed  his 
manly  arm  around  her,  and  pressed  his  lips 
to  hers,  and  saying  "Take  good  care  of  her, 
W ,"  sprang  on  his  horse  and  rode  swift 
ly  away. 

"  Give  me  your  arm,"  said   L ,  "and 


148       THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

let  us  walk  here  a  while.  I  can't  go  back 
to  that  room  again." 

So  we  walked  till  midnight,  talking  of 

Fred,  for  L would  listen  by  the  hour 

while  I  praised  my  friend.  She  loved  him 
with  a  holy  love.  It  is  a  blessed  thing  to 
meet  such  love  in  this  world.  Such  love  is 
like  a  smile  of  God  among  the  rough  scenes 
of  life.  She  was  hopeful,  trustful,  I  need 
not  say  faithful.  But  Fred,  and  L.  never 
met  again.  He  died,  alone,  in  a  lonely 
place.  Saturday  came  and  he  came  not 
She  was  disappointed  and  sad.  All  day  Sun 
day  I  devised  excuses  for  him. — Monday 
and  no  Fred.  Tuesday,  Wednesday  passed, 
and  at  length  Saturday  brought  me  a  letter 
from  a  strange  hand.  "  I  write  you,  Sir," 
said  the  letter,  "  as  directed  by  Mr.  Frederick 

G ,  who  died  at  my  house  last  night."    I 

need  not  attempt  to  describe  my  feelings  as 
I  went  on  to  read  the  particulars  of  his  sud 
den  death,  his  last  words  to  me,  his  message 
to  L.  They  were  written  out  by  a  stranger, 
taken  down  from  his  lips.  How  full  of 


A  MEMORY  OF  THE  OLD  CONGRESS.          149 

warnfth,  of  love,  of  agony.  "  Tell  him  to 
tell  her.  He  will  know  who  I  mean.  She 
must  not  weep.  She  may,  I  wish  she  could, 
forget  me." 

I  broke  the  news  to  her  as  well  as  I  could, 
standing  again  just  at  the  same  place.  She 
stood  statue-like  and  listened — then  fell  like 
a  dead  person  into  my  arms.  Since  then, 
she  too  has  fallen  asleep !  Her  blue  eye  is 
closed.  Her  glorious  hair  is  under  the  coffin- 
lid.  Her  voice  has  learned  a  new,  a  purer 
melody  !  I  stand  here  now  and  think  of  her 
while  the  sounds  of  revelry  come  faintly  to 
my  ear.  I  grow  purer  myself  in  communion 
with  the  dead.  Should  not  this  be  a  sacred 
place  to  me  ? 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

THE    DESERTED    CHURCHES. 

BALLSTON,  N.  Y.,  Aug.   13,  1847. 

THIS  is  far  pleasanter  than  Saratoga.  The 
old  Sans  Souci  is  quiet  and  comfortable. 
There  is  no  crowd,  no  noise,  all  is  delight 
fully  still  and  pleasant. 

I  am  quietly  and  pleasantly  situated  with 
my  friends,  and  we  shall  spend  the  next 
week  here,  then  perhaps  go  back  to  Sarato 
ga,  and  then  to  the  city  again. 

We  rode  again  yesterday  toward  the 
Lake,  and  around  the  head  of  it  to  the  Sul 
phur  Spring.  This  has  been  our  favorite 
ride,  although  the  road  is  outrageous  on  the 
shore  of  the  lake.  As  we  were  returning, 
we  passed  a  grave-yard,  the  country-grave 
yard,  where  the  stout  arms  that  tilled  the 
soil  lie  nerveless  under  it,  and  the  fathers  of 
the  living  generation  are  sleeping  after  their 


THE  DESERTED  CHURCHES.  151 

labors.     As  we  passed  on,  we  saw  a  grave 
stone  leaning  against  the  fence,   and  I  read 
the  name  across  the  top  of  the  stone  which 
alone  was  visible,  thus, — 
MARY. 

And  I  was  struck  with  the  singularity  of  a 
coincidence  which  I  will  explain. 

A  few  weeks  ago  I  was  riding  on  horse 
back  by  the  side  of  a  fair  and  thoughtful 
friend  over  the  hills  of  Connecticut  It  was 
twilight,  arid  as  we  passed  a  grave-yard,  1 
fancied  I  could  read  on  a  stone,  to  which  I 
called  my  friend's  attention,  the  same  name, 
"  Mary."  "  Let  us  stop  here,"  said  she, 
drawing  her  rein  and  looking  with  earnest 
eye  at  it. 

"  How  many  stones  I  have  seen  in  grave 
yards  bearing  that  name,  '  a  tear,'  or  '  bit 
terness,'  and  how  many  hearts,  think  you, 
W  -  ,  are  in  bitterness  for  that  girl's  memo 
ry  ?  She  was  a  girl,  you  see,  by  the  size 
of  the  stone.  They  always  make  the  size  of 
grave-stones  correspond  with  the  ages  of  the 


152       THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

dead  in  the  country.  She  must  have  been 
about  seventeen.  I  wonder  whether  she 
was  not  happier  than  I  am.  She  must 
have  been.  I  wonder  if  she  loved,  and 
whom  she  loved,  and  whose  embrace  she 
has  exchanged  for  that  bed  under  the  long 
grass. 

Had  she  a  father  ?  Had  she  a  mother  ? 

liad  she  a  sister  ?  Had  she  a  brother  ? 

Or  was  there  a  nearer  one  still,  and  a  dearer  one 

Yet  than  all  other  ?' 

I  can  imagine  a  sad  scene  when  she  died. 
How  they  loved  her  !  And  how  she  bade 
them  not  to  weep  for  her,  but  to  lay  her 
gently  in  the  old  hill-side  grave-yard  under 
the  oak  tree  yonder.  Then  there  was  ago 
ny,  the  agony  of  the  warm  country  heart. 
Oh,  how  different  from  our  schooled  grief  and 
weeping  by  conventional  law !  The  old 
father  stands  choking  with  his  manly  sor 
row  by  her  side  ;  the  mother  holds  her  dear 
» •  • 

girl's  head  in  her  faithful  arms.  (She  held 
her  in  her  babyhodd  thus !  Who  so  fit  to 
hold  her  now  ?)  The  little  sister  has  thrown 
herself  across  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  cries 


THE  DESERTED  CHURCHES.  153 

bitterly.  The  one,  the  dearer  one  than  all 
others,  stands  for  awhile  with  pale  face  by 
the  foot  of  the  bed,  silently  gazing  into  the 
eye  of  the  dying  girl,  until  he  sees  a  smile 
flitting  across  that  face  like  a  dream  of  hea 
ven,  and  she  reaches  out  both  hands  to  him, 
and  he  springs  toward  her,  and  in  that  last 
long  kiss  she  ceases  to  breathe,  dying  just 
where  she  always  wished,  on  his  breast. 

"  There !  have  I  not  made,  a  scene  for 
you?  Now  be  so  kind  as  to  repeat  that  pas 
sage  from  old  Sir  Thomas  Overbury,  that 
you  read  to  me  almost  a  year  ago,  in 
N ." 

I  had  been  looking  into  her  saddened  face 
while  she  spoke,  and  could  do  no  less  than 
obey  her,  quoting  as  nearly  as  I  could  from  >|K 
memory,  the  conclusion  of  the  beautiful  and 
quaint  description  of  a  "  Faire  and  Happy 
Milk-Maid/' 

"  She  dares  go  alone  and  unfold  sheep  in 
the  night,  and  fears  no  manner  of  ill,  for  she 
means  none.  She  is  never  alone,  to  say 

8 


154       THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

truth,  for  she  is  always  accompanied  with 
old  songs,  honest  thoughts,  and  prayers; 
short  ones,  but  they  have  their  efficacy! 
Her  dreams  are  so  chaste  that  she  dare  tell 
them,  only  a  ^Friday's  dream  is  her  super 
stition  ;  that  she  conceals.  Thus  lives  she, 
and  her  only  care  is  that  she  may  die  in 
Spring-time,  to  have  store  of  flowers  stuck 
upon  her  winding  sheet." 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you,"  said  my  com 
panion,  "  and  now  let  us  ride  on."  "  Not 
till  I  look  a  little  nearer  at  that  stone,"  said 
I.  Riding  to  the  fence,  and  leaning  over,  I 
read  aloud : 

"Mary,  wife  of ,  died  April  9th, 

1847,  aged  71  years,  &c.,  &c.  (I  couldn't 
read  a  word  on  the  stone,  but  I  wished  to 
see  the  effect  of  such  a  dash  of  cold  water  on 
the  romance  of  my  friend,  and  so  continued 
as  if  reading), — "  A  woman  of  great  worth, 
a  pattern  for  industry,  for  love  of  her  family 
and  her  home,  and  universally  beloved  by 
all  who  knew  her.  An  aged  husband  and 


THE  DESERTED  CHURCHES.  155 

a  large  number  of  descendants  of  two  gene 
rations  weep  at  her  grave." 

I  turned  away  with  a  serious  face,  and 
rode  along  by  the  side  of  my  companion. 
She  rode  with  her  eyes  on  the  ground 
awhile,  then  looked  up  with  a  sigh,  and 
said  as  if  musing,  S  Poor  old  man  !  how 
lonely  his  hearth  will  be  next  winter;-'  And 
then  tightening  her  rein,  her  horse  sprang 
forward,  while  I  enjoyed  my  laugh  at  her 
incorrigible  imagination. 

But  to  return  to  Ballston.  We  rode  yester 
day  afternoon  out  on  the  old  middle  road  to 
Milton,  and  looked  at  the  deserted  churches 
there  One  was  Episcopal,  the  other  Pres 
byterian.  .  They  are  both  now  in  utter  ruin. 
I  pushed  open  the  door  of  one  of  them,  and 
found  the  porch  occupied  by  a  loom  for 
weaving  which  a  farmer's  wife  had  placed 
there  to  have  a  cool  place  to  work.  Cool  ? 
It  was  frigid  !  No  glass  in  the  windows ; 
the  walls  were  crumbling  away.  I  went 
up  into  the  little  round  pulpit  by  a  winding 


156       THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

stair.  It  had  a  sounding  board  over  it,  ex 
actly  like  an  umbrella,  supported  by  a  single 
pillar.  How  odd  it  looked.  I  stood  there 
and  read  above  the  pulpit,  sounding  board 
and  all,  on  a  black  half-moon  in  the  wall, 
"  How  amiable  are  thy  tabernacles,  Oh,  Lord 
of  Hosts."  It  was  a  solemn  mockery  !  Years 
ago  the  last  sermon  was  preached  from  this 
desk,  the  last  song  of  praise  echoed  in  this 
temple.  The  preacher  sleeps  in  the  grave 
yard  yonder;  the  voices  of  the  village  choir 
are  feeble  and  tremulous  with  age,  or  silent 
ly  wait  to  take  up  the  new  song.  The  grave 
yard  has  grown  eloquent!  I  spoke  aloud. 
My  voice  scared  me.  I  attempted  to  laugh, 
but  could  not.  I  dared  not  laugh  there. 

I  should  like  to  go  into  that  church  some 
moonlight  night,  and  sit  down  in  the  little 
seat  under  the  pulpit.  If  the  dead  ever 
come  back  to  earth,  that  is  the  place.  They 
would  come  across  the  street  from  their 
present  homes,  and  take  their  old  seats  in 
the  square  pews.  What  a  solemn  looking 


THE  DESERTED  CHURCHES.  157 

procession  that  would  be,  as  one  by  one  the 
old  men  and  their  old  wives  come  tottering 
across  to  the  church  door,  while  laughing 
maidens  by  the  side  of  strong  and  ruddy 
farmer  boys,  go  tripping  into  the  gallery! 
Then  the  preacher  ascends  the  pulpit  stairs, 
and  looks  down  on  his  solemn  audience. 
They  sing  !  what  voices  !  the  voices  of  the 
buried  generation.  I  heard  some  sounds 
while  there  yesterday,  that  startled  me,  as  if 
I  had  heard  the  songs  of  the  forgotten.  The 
preacher  opens  his  Bible,  and  again  his 
voice  rings  in  the  ears  of  his  people,  as  he 
pleads  with  them  earnestly.  He  speaks  of 
hope,  of  Heaven,  of  God.  A  tall  thin  man 
in  the  front  pew  starts  up  and  shrieks  "  Top 
kite!  TooJateJ  Lost  MLostJ"  and  the  phan 
tom  congregation  vanish.  The  old  church 
is  deserted  again  and  silent.  The  dead 
sleep  in  the  old  grave  yard.  I  had  such 
thoughts  as  I  stood  in  that  old  pulpit. 

The  other  ruin  is  used  now  only  for  fune 
rals.      When  they  bury  their  dead,   they 


158       THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

gather  again  in  the  old  meeting-house,  but 
never  save  then.  It  is  a  fit  time  to  enter  its 
portals  ;  fitting  to  bear  the  dead  from  the  old 
church  aisle  to  the  old  country  grave-yard. 

I  am  writing  you  an  odd  letter  from  the 
Springs,  all  about  graves  and  grave-yards. 
I  am  well  interrupted  by  overhearing  Willis's 
laugh.  I  must  join  him  and  our  company. 


LETTER   XX. 

THE    DOVE    OF   THE   MOHAWKS. 

BALLSTON,  Aug.  20th,  1847. 

THE  temptation  was  too  strong  and  I  yield 
ed  to  it.  It  happened  this  way.  I  was  sit 
ting  quietly  enough  with  Willis  at  the 
window,  talking  about  the  probabilities  for 
and  against  Gen.  Scott  being  in  Mexico, 
when  a  man  walked  by  with  a  reed  pole  on 
his  shoulder  and  a  string  of  fish  in  his  hand. 
"  Where  did  you  get  those  ?"  said  Joe.  "  In 
Saratoga  Lake,"  was  the  reply.  "  Too  far 
by  half  for  my  laziness,"  said  Willis,  drop 
ping  contentedly  into  his  chair  again.  "  Joe," 
said  I,  about  five  minutes  later.  "  Well." 
"  There  are  trout  in  the  Kayderoceros.  We 
used  to  take  them  there."  "  Well."  "  Well  ? 
don't  you  see  the  inference?  We  must 
take  them  out."  "  Too  much  trouble 
W ,  altogether  too  much."  "  So  I  thought 


160        THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

until  about  two  minutes  and  a  half  ago,  but 
I'm  now  convinced  its  easy  enough.  I'm 
off  instantly  :  come."  "  No,  no,  I'll  take  care 
of  the  ladies.  They  may  be  able  to  spare 
you  elderly  people,  but  not  me — ahem. 
Ask  Mr.  T.  to  go  with  you."  So  having  set 
tled  it  in  my  own  mind,  I  proceeded  to 
make  an  examination  and  exploration  for 
rods  and  lines,  &c.,  to  manufacture  some 
flies.  The  forenoon  was  used  up  in  this 
way,  and  after  dinner,  I  put  Festus  into  my 
pocket  in  case  of  dull  sport,  and  strolled 
away  over  the  Rail  Road  bridge.  Then 
turned  into  the  woods,  and  walking  up  the 
stream  about  a  half  a  mile,  came  down  to 
the  water  and  prepared  my  tackle  for  use. 
But  the  wind  had  lulled  since  I  started,  and 
the  sun  had  come  out  from  clouds,  and  its 
rays  fell  hot  and  bright  on  the  water.  I 
coaxed  and  coaxed  the  trout,  offering  them 
every  fly  I  had,  and  especially  tempting 
their  lazy  appetites  with  the  green  fly  of  Au 
gust.  But  if  they  were  there,  they  lay  still  in 


THE  DOVE  OF  THE  MOHAWKS.      161 

their  holes,  and  I  changed  my  hooks  and  tried 
bait.  There  was  one  place  where  the  creek 
fell  over  rocks  into  a  deep  broad  basin,  and 
ran  under  overhanging  banks.  It  might 
have  been  some  eighty  feet  across  it  above 
the  fall,  and  it  widened  to  a  hundred  or 
more,  below.  Here  I  tried  my  worms,  and 
took  out  a  dozen  good  sized  wind  fish, 
weighing  perhaps  three  quarters  of  a  pound 
each.  But  still  no  trout.  So  I  replaced  my 
flies,  tried  one  and  another  and  another, 
and  then  gave  it  up,  and  walked  slowly 
down  the  stream  till  I  came  to  the  Lover's 
Leap,  where  I  threw  myself  on  the  ground, 
and  taking  out  my  book  began  to  read. 

It  is  a  magnificent  place  for  repose.  I 
was  on  a  greensward,  which  sloped  gently 
down  to  the  water,  the  stream  here  being 
about  fifty  or  sixty  feet  wide.  Behind  me 
was  a  dense  forest  of  Hemlock  and  Pine.  I 
lay  under  a  noble  Elm.  Before  me  rolled 
the  Kayderoceros,  deep  and  dark,  under  a 
precipice  of  black  rock  a  hundred  feet  above 


162       THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

the  water,  on  whose  peak  gigantic  Pines 
stood  in  solemn  grandeur,  almost  a  hundred 
feet  higher.  At  my  right  the  river  rushed 
with  wild  fury  down  a  channel  of  rocks,  un 
til  it  struck  the  base  of  the  hill,  then  sudden 
ly  grew  calm  and  even  sluggish,  and  turning 
around  the  little  green  spot  on  which  I  was, 
went  slowly  eastward,  till  it  reached  its 
next  fall. 

That  greensward  where  I  lay  is  seldom 
reached  by  sunbeam.  It  is  a  calm  deep 
solitude  there,  a  place  to  go  on  a  quiet  sum 
mer's  day  and  sit  with  one  friend,  and  tell  the 
story  of  Nunilla,  the  dove  of  the  Mohawks. 

You  will  tire  of  my  legends  if  I  tell  you 
any  more  of  them.  But  I  confess  to  a  de 
votion  to  Indian  stories.  I  would  rather  sit 
down  in  such  a  place  and  hear  a  story  of 
three  hundred  years  ago,  than  be  in  the 
merriest  company  you  could  give  me.  I 
shall  therefore  make  no  apology  for  my  tales 
of  the  olden  time. 

This  tale  of  Nunilla  I  have  somewhere, 
but  not  here,  and  I  therefore  must  premise 


THE  DOVE  OF  THE  MOHAWKS.      163 

my  brief  recountal  of  it,  by  saying  that  I  tell 
it  from  a  memory  of  ten  years  at  least.  I 
have  not  seen  nor  heard  it  in  that  time,  un 
til  I  told  it  to  Willis  an  hour  ago. 

It  was  in  the  days  when  the  Mohawks 
were  lords,  from  the  great  river  of  the  North 
to  the  thunder  of  the  cataract.  And  Nunil- 
Ja  was  the  idol  of  the  tribe,  the  daughter  of 
the  proudest  warrior  chief.  I  need  not  write 
all  this  out ;  it  is  of  course  a  part  of  the  le 
gend  as  of  all  others,  and  you  can  imagine 
too  the  firm  foot  and  bright  eye  and  strong 
arm  of  the  Hawk,  the  warrior  who  loved 
her.  Fill  out  the  description  to  suit  your 
self. 

The  lodge  of  the  Hawk  was  ready  for 
Nunilla,  and  the  dove  was  to  rest  in  the 
nest  of  the  falcon.  (Now  some  infidel  will 
say,  as  he  reads  this,  that  that  singular  con 
junction  of  names,  the  dove  and  the  Hawk, 
makes  the  story  seem  apocryphal.  To  any 
such  I  would  suggest  this  idea.  It's  a  great 
deal  easier,  and  will  save  you  lots  of  trouble,  if 
you'll  only  be  a  little  more  credulous.  It  is 


164  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

my  principle  to  doubt  nothing ;  or,  if  I  do 
doubt,  to  say  nothing  about  my  skepticism.) 

The  love  of  an  Indian  girl  must  be  a  love 
worth  possessing.  So  natural,  pure,  and 
holy,  gushing  fountain-like  from  a  glad  guile 
less  heart,  and  enriching  its  object  with  a 
wealth  that  civilization  never  dreams  of  If 
I  were  as  young  as  I  once  was,  and  could 
meet  with  a  second  Nunilla,  I  would  be  in 
clined  to  lead  a  forest  life  and  believe  in  the 
hunting  grounds  of  the  blessed. 

The  Hawk  went  on  a  war-track  and  fell 
overpowered  by  numbers. ,  He  fought  va 
liantly,  and  his  hatchet  was  red  with  the 
blood  of  his  enemies.  The  Mohawks  were 
victorious,  but  brought  him  home  in  their 
arms,  wounded  and  dying.  Nunilla  met 
them.  She  watched  him  till  he  died,  and 
then  the  fond  girl's  eye  grew  dim  with  long, 
long  weeping.  At  length  she  ceased  to 
weep,  but  the  unnatural  lustre  in  her  eye 
was  the  gleam  of  madness.  Poor  girl !  Her 
love  was  more  faithful  than  the  love  of  white 
maidens.  0*1 


THE  DOVE  OF  THE  MOHAWKS.  1  65 

One  sunny  afternoon  she  sought  the  dark 
forest,  on  the  summit  of  the  rock  I  have  de 
scribed,  and  seating  herself  on  the  edge  of 
the  precipice,  sang  songs  to  the  wind,  and 
plucking  wild  flowers,  flung  them  into  the 
stream  far  below.  As  the  sun  neared  the 
horizon  her  song  grew  wilder  and  more 
sweet.  An  Indian  passing  on  the  other  side 
fancied  he  heard  a  voice  from  the  land  of 
the  brave  dead,  and  raising  his  eyes  saw  the 
fair  girl  seated  on  a  rock  and  looking  up  in 
to  the  far  off  sky.  When  the  sun  had  set 
she  began  her  death  song.  It  floated  out 
in  the  twilight,  and  the  river  hushed  to  listen 
to  the  wild  melody.  And  as  she  sang  she 
disrobed  herself,  laying  her  dress  and  orna 
ments  one  by  one  on  the  rock,  recounting 
the  story  of  her  love  and  her  lover's  gifts. 
At  length  she  stood  up  in  the  last  rays  of 
the  day  light  with  no  covering  on  her  grace 
ful  limbs  and  fairy  body,  save  the  long  black 
hair  that  hung  over  them,  and  raising  her 
hands  to  heaven,  called  aloud  the  name  of 


166       THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

her  lost  love,  and  sprang  into  the  air.  The 
deep  dark  water  opened  to  receive  and 
closed  above  her. 

In  the  hunting  grounds  of  the  spirit-land 
when  the  Hawk  Chief  came  back  from  the 
chase  to  his  lodge  that  night,  the  soft  arms 
of  Nunilla  were  flung  around  his  neck,  and 
her  melodious  voice  syllabled  his  name. 

Just  as  the  dawn  appeared  the  next  morn 
ing,  the  canoe  of  a  young  Indian  going  out  to 
fish  on  the  lake,  passed  near  the  outlet  of  the 
Kayderoceros.  The  solitary  fisherman  looked 
over  the  side  of  his  boat,  and  started  as  he 
saw  on  the  bottom  of  the  clear  water  the 
form  of  a  girl,  and  diving,  brought  it  to  the 
surface  and  laid  it  in  the  prow  of  his  canoe. 
Then  he  recognised  the  matchless  form  and 
features  of  the  dove  of  the  Mohawks.  A 
smile  so  holy  and  heavenly  was  on  her  face, 
that  as  the  young  warrior  laid  her  body  on 
the  green  turf  of  the  shore,  he  knelt  and 
gazed,  and  looking  up  to  heaven,  vowed  to 
love  no  Indian  girl  till  he  should  meet  Nu- 


THE  DOVE  OF  THE  MOHAWKS.      167 

nilla  in  the  land  of  spirits.  They  buried 
her  under  the  very  turf  on  which  T  lay  read 
ing,  and  for  many  a  year  the  Indian  maidens 
brought  flowers  and  laid  them  reverently  on 
the  grave.  Even  I,  searching  diligently  for 
some  mark  which  might  indicate  the  pre 
cise  spot  of  her  sleep,  threw  a  handful  of 
flowers  over  her,  and  turning  back  to  my 
book,  read  till  the  last  sunbeam  lit  the  top 
of  the  pine  tree  that  tapered  far  up  into  the 
air  above  me. 

I  was  reading  just  at  the  parting  of  Elissa 
and  Lucifer — 

LUCIFER.     Now  Jet  us  part  or  I  shall  die  of  wrath, 
Be  my  estrangement  perfect  as  my  love. 

ELISSA.        Part  then. 

LUCIFER.  Thank  God,  it  is  for  eternity. 

ELISSA.        I  do ;  away  ! 

LUCIFER.  Festus,  I  wait  for  thee. 

FESTUS.       Come,  thou  art  not  the  first  deceived  in  love. 
Yet  love  is  not  so  much  love  as  a  dream 
Which  hath  it  seems  like  guerdon  with  the  thing — 
The  staring  madness  when  we  wake  and  find 
That  what  we  have  loved,  must  love,  is  not  that 
We  meant  to  love. 

Plash !  a  trout  jumped !    I  was  on  my  feet 


168       THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

in  an  instant,  and  the  gray  fly  on  my  line 
went  dancing  over  the  ripples.  A  leap — I 
had  him.  He  pulled  gallantly — straight 
down  the  stream  with  fifteen  fathoms  of 
line  before  I  could  turn  him.  Then  up 
again  like  a  flash.  I  used  my  reel,  but  had 
to  give  him  twenty  fathoms  as  he  went  up. 
Then  he  turned  and  dashed  under  a  bank, 
where  he  lay  till  I  teased  him  out.  Up 
stream  again  !  and  now  I  gave  him  line  and 
followed,  for  the  water  was  not  so  deep 
above.  So  we  struggled  for  fifteen  minutes, 
when  at  last  I  drowned  him,  and  landed 
him — a  good  three  pounder.  Rather  small 
to  have  given  me  so  much  trouble,  but  I 
had  a  light  rod,  and.  could  not  trust  it.  He 
was  grand  for  breakfast. 


LETTER    XXI. 

THE    RAIL-ROAD    AND    THE    GRAVE-YARD. 

SARATOGA,  Aug.  24th,  1847. 

As  you  perceive,  T  date  again  from  the  head 
quarters  of  all  that  is  gay.  Never  mind 
why  I  am  here.  If  you  should  guess  that 
I  came  back  for  the  same  reasons  I  was 
here  before,  you  wouldn't  be  far  from  guess 
ing  right.  It  is  stiller  than  it  was ;  there 
are  decidedly  fewer  persons  here,  and  water 
and  tables  are  much  more  easily  got  at  than 
they  were  last  week.  I  looked  in  at  the 
United  States  a  moment  last  Saturday,  but 
went  back  to  Ballston  again  the  same 
evening.  I'll  tell  you  how  it  was. 

By  the  kindness  of  a  friend  we  had  a 
horse  car  placed  at  our  service  after  the  last 
train  up  in  the  afternoon,  and  with  a  plea 
sant  load  of  laughers  we  started  for  Sara 
toga.  Our  horse  being  a  rail-rood  animal, 


170        THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

we  made  a  little  better  time  than  the  loco 
motives  usually  do,  and  our  car  (the  super 
intendent's  rubble-car  with  which  he  drives 
over  and  examines  the  road),  was  just  the 
thing  for  comfortable  talking  and  laughing. 
"  I  shall  ask  you  to  bring  back  two  pas 
sengers  with  you  when  you  return,"  said  the 
agent, — "a  workman  and  his  wife  who 
missed  the  last  train  down."  "  Certainly," 
said  we,  our  car  being  "  capacious  of  all 
things,"  as  Sheridan  (wasn't  it?)  said  of  Hy- 
der  Ali's  mind.  But  we  didn't  bargain  for 
the  rest  of  the  man's  family.  The  moon 
was  eminently  beautiful  as  we  left  Saratoga 
with  the  merriest,  happiest  load  you  could 
imagine,  and  for  forward  deck  passengers, 
the  family  aforesaid,  including  three  genu 
ine  young  Hibernians,  who  were  practising 
apparently  the  various  intonations  of 
"  Faugh-a-ballah."  They  kept  it  up  deli- 
ciously.  The  boy  I  pitied  extremely,  and 

at  length  Miss  T 's  sympathy  became 

so  great,  that  she  seized  the  little  fellow  and 


THE  RAIL  ROAD  AND  THE  GRAVE- YARD.  171 


X 


placed  him  on  the  seat  between  her  and 
myself,  and  there  he  was  for  a  time  more 
contented,  with  his  head  lying  against  her 
arm.  (If  I  was  only  a  younger  man  now, 
I  would  add  something  about  any  one  being 
contented  in  such  a  position.  But  I  dare 
not.) 

"  W ,  do  you  remember  the  twilight 

at  S—  —the  other  day  ?  Was  it  not  much 
like  this  ?"  "  It  was,  in  truth,  beautiful  in 
the "  «  Bah— ah— ah  "  from  the  Hiber 
nian  number  three,  with  "  Bu hu — hu  " 

from  number  two,  and  an  occasional  ejacu- 
latory  sob  from  number  one  between  Miss 
T.  and  myself. 

"  Mrs.  H ,  will  you  not  sing  that  beau 
tiful  thing  I  heard  you  singing  this  morn 
ing  ?"  "  Certainly,  Mr.  Willis.  What  was  it 
that  you  mean?"  "I  don't  know  the  name 
of  it,  it  was  a  plaintive  air,  that  I  have  heard 
years  ago,  I  am  sure  ;  perhaps  when  I  was 
in  college.  At  least,  it  reminded  me  of 
those  days."  "  A  plaintive  air  ?  Reminded 


172       THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

you  of  college  days  ?  What  could  it  have 
been  ?  Ah,  yes  !  I  remember."  Attention 

all,  while  Mrs.  H ,  in  a  bird-like  voice 

with  a  saddened  face,  begins  :  "  Come,  land 
lord  fill,  &c."  The  allusion  to  Joe's  college 
life  is  palpable,  and  before  the  first  line  is 
finished  a  burst  of  merriment,  in  which 
Willis  joins  heartily,  interrupted  the  singer. 

"  Mr.  W ,  you  are  still.  What's  the 

matter  ?"  "  Giving  all  my  attention  to  this 
animal,  madam.  I'm  afraid  hell  have  us 
off  the  track,  or  that  this  frightful  velocity 
will  end  in  a  snake  head."  "  Apropos  of 
snake  heads,  W—  — ,  please  sing  Spring 
field  Mountain."  "  Your  will  is  my  law, 

my  dear  M ,  and  I  have  the  call  after 

the  song."  «  Of  course." 

Your  humble  servant  therefore  sings  the 
celebrated  "  Pison  Sarpent "  song,  and  calls 
on  Miss  B—  -  for  "  Oh,  promise  me  to  sing, 
love," — which  was  sung  in  a  sweet  voice 
and  beautifully  (accompaniment  on  the  bag 
pipes  by  Miss  T 's  protege,  and  two 


THE  RAIL  ROAD  AND  THE  GRAVE- YARD.  173 

exquisite  trebles  from    Numbers  two  and 

three ;  the  trill  on  the  repeat  <:  O o — o— 

oh  promise,  &c."  being  timed  by  the  num 
ber  of  spike  heads  we  passed  over  in  the 
strap  rail,  arid  the  song  being  stopped  by  a 
loud  laugh  from  the  whole  company,  led  off 
by  the  fair  singer  herself.)  t 

"  Mrs.  H ,  will  you  not  sing  me  that 

song?"  "Anything  to  oblige  you,  Mr. 
Willis.  But  it  can't  be  a  song  you  heard 
years  ago,  unless,  as  I  have  suspected  my 
self,  the  air  is  an  old  one ;"  and  Mrs.  H— 
sang.  "  Are  we  almost  there  ?"  So  plea 
santly  we  rode  along,  and,  stopping  for 
awhile  at  the  Ellis  Spring  to  drink,  passed 
forest  and  farm  and  reached  Ballston  at  no 
late  hour. 

On  Sunday  we  attended  the  Presbyterian 
church  in  Ballston.  The  congregation  is  a 
fine-looking  one,  composed  of  visitors,  villa 
gers,  and  farmers  from  the  country  around. 
They  come  on  foot,  in  carriages,  wagons, 
and  occasionally  a  gentlemen  and  lady  on 


174  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

horseback.  The  attention  in  church  is  emi 
nently  solemn  ;  the  men,  one  and  all,  fix 
ing  their  eyes  on  the  pulpit,  and  appearing 
to  lose  not  a  word  of  the  sermon.  After 
church  in  the  afternoon,  I  walked  up  to  the 

0 

graveyard  with  a  friend  from  the  city,  who 
was  many  years  ago  the  pastor  of  this 
church.  He  went  to  look  up  numbers  of 
his  congregation  whom  he  had  missed  from 
their  pews.  He  found  most  of  them — in 
the  solemn  congregation  of  the  dead. 

Among  the  graves  were  many  of  those 
who  died  while  seeking  from  these  waters 
the  life  that  was  ebbing  away.  Some  from 
far  lands  sleep  the  long  sleep  on  this  hill ; 
many  who  were  eminent  in  their  day  whose 
graves  are  now  forgotten.  Here  was  the 
bed  of  an  old  man  who  was  weary  and 
glad  to  rest.  As  I  entered  the  yard  I  observ 
ed  a  mother  leaning  over  a  grave  which  I 
knew  to  be  that  of  her  son,  and  at  length 
kneeling  beside  it  with  her  head  bowed 
over  it.  Poor  woman  !  She  was  praying 
for  the  peace  of  his  soul. 


THE  RAIL  ROAD  AND  THE  GRAVE- YARD.  175 

"Here,"  said  my  reverend  companion, 
"Here  is  one  whom  I  remember.  Her's 
was  a  troubled  pilgrimage.  '  After  life's  fit 
ful  fever  she  sleeps  well.'  Here  is  another. 
He  was  a  proud  man — "  and  I  heard  him  in 
a  low  tone  quoting  the  Roman  Flaccus, 
"  Mors  equo  pede,  &c."  "  This  is  the  grave 

of .  I  was  with  her  when  she  died.    It 

was  a  startling  incident.  She  was  sick,  dy 
ing  with  consumption,  and  earnestly  wished 
to  make  a  public  profession  of  faith  in  the 
Savior,  and  to  partake  of  the  communion. 
At  length  I  took  some  members  of  my  ses 
sion  with  me  to  see  her,  and  we  examined 
and  admitted  her  to  the  church.  I  made  a 
public  announcement  of  it  at  her  request 
from  the  pulpit  the  next  Sabbath,  and  pro 
posed,  if  she  still  insisted  on  it,  to  adminis 
ter  the  Sacrament  of  the  Supper  by  her  bed 
side  during  the  next  week.  That  evening 
I  visited  her  and  sat  down  by  her  side.  She 
had  a  large  black  eye,  full  of  light ;  a  speak 
ing  eye,  by  which  I  knew  her  thoughts  when 


176       THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

she  could  with  difficulty  articulate  words. 
She  looked  up  at  me  as  I  took  my  seat,  and 
fixed  her  eyes  on  mine  as  she  always  did, 
and  listened  with  an  intent  look  of  interest 
until  I  ceased  speaking.  She  was  dead ! 
How  long  I  had  been  speaking  to  the  ear  of 
death,  neither  I  nor  any  who  were  present 
knew.  There  had  been  no  sigh,  no  motion 
of  hand  or  lip  or  eye — she  was  calmly  and 
placidly  dead." 

With  such  converse  as  this  we  passed  an 
hour  in  the  church-yard  (I  like  that  phrase 
"  church-yard"),  and  read  over  the  marbles. 
It  is  a  pleasant  walk  on  a  Sunday  afternoon, 
in  a  village  grave-yard.  There  is  something 
in  my  mind  peculiarly  pleasant  in  having 
the  grave-yard  near  the  church,  so  that  every 
sabbath-day  the  congregation  all  meet,  the 
living  and  the  dead,  in  the  presence  of  God. 
And  then  at  noon,  the  farmers  with  their 
families,  who  have  brought  their  dinners,  to 
stay  until  afternoon  service,  walk  out  into 
the  burying-ground,  and,  sitting  down  on 
graves,  talk  of  the  dead,  and  tell  their  chil- 


THE  RAIL  ROAD  AND  THE  GRAVE- YARD.  177 

dren  stories  of  their  own  far  gone  but  unfor- 
gotten  childhood.     And  you  may  see  some 
sitting  with  tear-dimmed  eyes.     Holy  tears 
are   those!     Next  in   holiness,  I  think,   to 
tears  of  penitence.  They  come  into  the  place 
of  graves,  mothers  and   sisters  (sometimes 
fathers  and  brothers,  but  not  so  often),  and 
bowing  their  heads  over  the  dust  of  the  belov 
ed,  weep  because  the  dead  are  separate  from 
them ;  but  then  remembering  how  the  minis 
ter,  when  he  laid  them  down  in  the  ground, 
lifted  his  hat  from  his  head  and  said  in  so 
lemn  tones,  "  I  am  the  resurrection  and  the 
life ;  he  that  belie veth  in  rne,  though  he  were 
dead,  yet  shall  he  live,"  they  look  up  into 
one  another's  faces  somewhat  more  cheer 
fully,  and  then  pulling  the  weeds  and  dead 
grass  from  the  sod,  turn  back  to  their  seats 
by  the  window  in  the  old  church,  where 
they  can  look  out  at  the  stone  whose  record 
they  know  all  by  heart,  and  listen  to  the  af 
ternoon     service    with    earnest    attention. 
Then  they  ride  home  in  their  long  wagons, 

9 


178       THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

all  the  family  together,  better  and  wiser  than 
they  were  in  the  morning,  as  well  for  the 
teachings  of  the  grave  as  for  the  words  of 
the  clergyman. 

I  cannot  express  to  you  how  much  these 
scenes  of  my  long  gone  boyhood  affect  me 
now.  I  am  a  child  again  on  a  Sunday 
morning  in  the  country.  I  walk  reverently 
to  the  church,  and  listen  to  the  village  choir, 
and  remember.  }  What  a  depth  there  is  in 
that  word  remember  !\ 

I  think  of  my  own  changed  person  ;  my 
bent  body,  my  cheeks  already  marked  with 
life's  lines.  I  remember  the  careless, 
thoughtless,  happy  boy,  I  knew  myself  to 
be,  and  when  I  compare  that  boy  with  the 
man,  schooled  to  hypocrisy,  well  learned  in 
the  lessons  of  life,  I  may  well  grow  sad. 
There  are  other-  and  more  sorrowful 
thoughts.  The  time  between  that  child 
hood  and  the  present  is  filled  with  the  ex 
perience  of  living.  It  took  me  just  as  long 
as  it  takes  every  one,  to  learn  that  there 
were  others  in  the  world  beside  myself  who 


THE  RAIL  ROAD  AND  THE  GRAVE- YARD.  179 

were  hypocrites,  and  just  as  long  after  that, 
to  learn  that  after  all  it  was  a  pleasant 
world,  and  full  of  happiness  and  truth,  for 
all  who  would  look  on  the  bright  side  of  it. 
You,  at  least,  will  give  me  credit  for  extract 
ing  as  much  of  the  good  out  of  it,  for  enjoy 
ing  it  as  keenly,  and  quarreling  with  it  as 
little,  as  most  persons".  I  sat  in  that  church 
last  Sunday,  and  was  sad  as  I  thought  of 
one  I  once  sat  there  with.  We  rode  toge 
ther  from  Saratoga  to  Ballston  to  church 
one  bright  morning  long  ago.  She  has 
passed  hence  to  holier  Sabbaths  !  I  saw  her 
coffined. 

'*  Thy  lip  was  ruddy  and  calm,  Lassie, 

Thy  lip  was  ruddy  and  calm, 
But  gone  was  the  holy  breath  of  Heaven 
That  sang  the  evening  psalm." 


LETTER   XXII. 

FACES. 
U.  S.  HOTEL,  SARATOGA,  August  25th. 

AMONG  the  thousand  visitors  here,  it 
would  be  strange  if  there  were  not  some 
marked  characters,  whose  very  faces  bear 
the  impress  of  a  life  of  strange  experience. 
Such  a  person  I  passed  on  the  piazza  last 
evening,  and  meeting  him  repeatedly  in  my 
walk,  a  companion  who  was  leaning  on  rny 
arm  at  length  observed  that  his  face  indicat 
ed  a  life  of  thoughtlessness,  and  yet  there 
was  in  his  appearance  an  evidence  of  some 
one  great  sorrow.  "  Not  more  than  one,  I 
should  think,"  continued  my  friend. 
"  There  is  always  a  different  look  on  the 
face  of  a  person  broken  down  by  some  pre 
eminent  grief,  from  that  expression  which 
indicates  a  life  of  trial.  That  man  has  been 
a  dissipated  man,  a  roue  in  every  sense  of 
the  word ;  and  yet  see  how  sedately  he 


FACES.  181 

walks  now ;  how  appealingly  he  looks  to 
every  face  he  meets,  as  if  at  last  he  had 
learned  the  necessity  of  sympathy." 

"  You  are  right/'  said  Willis,  joining  us  at 
the  moment ;  "  I  have  just  heard  his  history 
from  one  who  knows  it.  He  is  young,  and 
yet  old.  His  body  is  young,  but  his  soul  is 
weighed  down  with  years  that  only  became 
heavy  in  a  single  instant  of  agony."  "  How 
was  it,  Mr.  Willis  ?  Will  you  not  tell  me  ?" 
"  Assuredly,  Madam.  It  is  a  short  history. 
He  is  a  native  of  Louisiana,  wealtfiy,  and 
of  good  family.  He  plunged  into  all  man 
ner  of  dissipation,  from  which  he  was  res 
cued  by  a  lady  whom  he  then  loved  better 
than  his  companions,  and  who  married  him. 
But  two  years  passed,  and  he  was  deeper 
than  before  in  drunkenness,  gambling,  and 
all  the  means  of  destruction  which  New 
Orleans  affords.  His  beautiful  wife  was 
treated  with  coldness,  contempt,  and  final 
cruelty.  She  pined  away  under  such  treat 
ment,  until  one  evening  when  she  begged 


182       THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

him  not  to  leave  her  bed-side,  for  she  felt 
that  death  was  near,  he,  in  his  insanity, 
called  her  by  names  more  opprobrious  than 
he  had  ever  before  used,  and  with  an  oath 
left  her.  An  hour  later,  while  he  was  in 
the  drinking  room  of  the  — —  Hotel, 
already  drunk,  a  messenger  came  to  tell  him 
that  his  wife  was  dead.  From  that  hour  to 
this  he  has  been  a  sober  man.  He  never 
knew  till  then  how  well  he  loved  her  ;  and 
now  he  cannot  forget  her  nor  his  last  words 
to  her*1  *j  He  will  remember  those  words 
in  the  judgment  morning  j"  said  my  com 
panion,  with  an  earnestness  which  startled 
me. 

This  is  here,  as  elsewhere,  the  most  in 
teresting  as  well  as  profitable  amusement 
of  the  day  or  evening,  the  study  of  physiog 
nomy,  the  reading  of  life-histories  on  faces. 
A  little  experience  prevents  the  possibility 
of  mistake.  The  language  is  one  easily 
learned  ;  the  imprint  is  legible,  and  the  im 
primatur  is  from  God ;  so  that  the  book  is 


FACES.  183 

always  to  be  depended  upon  as* just  what  it 
professes  to  be,  a  record  of  the  soul.  Even 
as  we  were  looking  at  that  world- worn  man, 
he  raised  his  hat  from  his  head,  and  bowed 
low  to  a  lady  who  came  out  from  the  draw 
ing-room  to  the  piazza,  and  joining  her  in 
her  promenade,  seemed  to  be  the  mere  po 
lished  gentleman,  who  had  for  a  time  thrown 
aside  his  business  to  talk  and  while  away  a 
week  at  the  Springs.  But  as  he  passed  me, 
I  could  see  underneath  that  smile  a  sneer, 
that  I  am  sure  was  the  effect  of  a  compari 
son  of  his  companion  with  his  buried  wife. 
That  companion  was  a  confirmed  belle. 
Every  step  was  by  rule ;  her  smile  heavy  (a 
settled  smile),  her  voice  clear  and  musical, 
but  toned  according  to  the  occasion.  Per 
haps  she  knew  that  her  companion  was  a 
widower,  worth  half  a  million.  Whatever 
she  knew,  I  saw  that  he  knew  her.  His 
smile  flitted  across  his  face,  now  bright,  now 
calm,  now  verging  into  an  actual  laugh,  and 
again  settling  into  that  cool,  mocking  sneer. 


184  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

And  I  compared  the  two,  while  Willis  re 
lieved  me  of  my  companion,  and  leaning 
against  a  pillar  thought  of  the  difference  be 
tween  them.     The  one  was  an  old  man  in 
his  youth,  and  like  a  noble  vessel,  dismasted 
and  rudderless  from  one  wild  storm,  was 
drifting    heedlessly    to    destruction.      The 
other  was  a  strange  compound  of  thought 
ful  thoughtlessness.     There  is  no  paradox 
in  that  expression.     Many  an  hour  of  every 
day  she  passed  in  deep  reflection,  on  the 
progress  she  had  made  the  day  before,  or  the 
probable  success  of  plans  for  to-day.     Even 
while  I  was  looking  at  her  she  was  flinging 
idle  words  to  the  wind,  yet  deeply  pondering 
all  that  time  on  the  effect  those  words  were 
producing.     Both  of  them  were  talking  of 
one  thing,  and  thinking  of  another.     She,  as 
I  have  said,  talking  words  that  had  effect  on 
the   air  and  nowhere  else,  yet  wondering 
how  deeply  they  sank  into  the  heart  of  her 
companion,  which  heart,  she  little  dreamed, 
was  adamant  now ;  while  he,  carelessly  ut- 


FACES.  185 

tering  sentences  of  vague  meaning,  thought 
and  cared  nothing  for  them  after  they  had 
left  his  lips,  but  was  dreaming  a  long  day 
dream  of  the  wealth  of  love  he  had  squan 
dered,  and  perhaps  longing  for  another  life 
to  fill  with  that  same  holy  affection  the  cof 
fers  of  his  impoverished  soul. 

Other  characters  entered  the  scene  as  I 
stood  there ;  the  dandy  who  would  be  a 
drinking  man  and  a  roue,  if  it  were  not  that 
he  has  no  brains  to  be  stolen  away  by  "  put 
ting  the  thief  into  his  mouth."  The  sedate, 
gentlemanly  citizen,  whose  family  are  out 
in  the  carriage  while  he  amuses  himself 
with  his  cigar  on  the  colonnade  ;  the  lawyer 
who  has  exerted  himself  in  the  chancellor's 
Court,  and  is  now  cooling  his  bare  head  in 
the  evening  breeze ;  the  returned  soldier, 
between  two  ladies  who  are  determined  to 
extract  from  him,  what  he  seems  equally 
determined  to  conceal  (perhaps  from  a  true 
sense  of  modesty),  the  story  of  Buena  Vista 
or  Cerro  Gordo. 

9* 


186       THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

But  let  us  return  to  the  piazza.  Perhaps 
no  position  in  the  United  States  (I  mean 
the  country  not  this  Hotel),  could  be  select 
ed,  so  well  adapted  to  the  employment  I  arn 
now  speaking  of,  as  the  one  which  we  have 
taken  by  this  pillar.  Here  comes  a  party 
up  the  steps,  returning  from  their  ride.  They 
are  the  family  of  the  citizen  before  named. 
The  mother  is  a  fair  specimen  of  the  digni 
fied  matron,  the  mistress  of  a  fine  establish 
ment.  Her  daughter  is  a  black  eyed,  merry 
girl  of  seventeen,  full  of  life  and  fond  of  fun. 
You  see  it  sparkling  in  her  eye  now,  as  she 
declines  the  proffered  assistance  of  that 
good-looking  fellow  who  stands  by  the  ba 
rouche  door.  There  is  something  of  child 
ishness  and  innocence  in  her  ways,  but  far 
more  maturity  than  seventeen  summers 
should  have  developed.  Why  is  it  ?  Be 
cause  city  children  grow  old  faster  than 
they  do  in  the  country.  There  is  a  daily 
experience  there,  which  initiates  the  young 
mind  in  the  world  (so  called)  with  frightful 


FACES.  187 

rapidity.  The  "  fair  and  happy  milk  maid," 
or  even  a  village  girl,  knows  nothing  of  this. 
That  happy  face  has  been  already  in  the 
saloons  of  New  York  by  winter,  and  has 
become  familiar  to  Saratoga  visitors  in  sum 
mer.  The  world,  to  her,  is  "  the  city  and 
the  springs."  Her  brother  by  her  side,  is  an 
undergraduate  in  one  of  our  Eastern  col 
leges.'  A  pleasant,  warm-hearted  sopho 
more.  He  strolls  around  here,  amusing 
himself,  and  the  favorite  of  all  that  know 
him.  Observe  the  smiles  and  bows  that 
greet  him  as  he  approaches  us.  *  There  was 
something  strangely  formal  in  the  manner  in 
which  he  took  off  his  hat  to  that  elderly 
gentleman  standing  with  his  back  toward 
us,  talking  with  that  pale-faced  man.  If 
you  could  see  the  face  which  belongs  to 
that  well-shaped  head,  I  will  answer  for  it 

you  would  recognise  the  President  of  A . 

"  Who  is  the  pale  man  he  is  talking  with  ?" 
I 'can't  tell  you,  there  are  several  such  men 
here,  and  I  like  to  look  on  those  men  better 
than  any  others  in  the  town. 


188       THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

They  are  the  men  that  live  for  immortali 
ty.  They  are  seekers  after  no  bauble. 
What  do  they  here  ?  They  are  worn  with 
study,  and  the  toil  that  wastes  the  body 
while  it  feeds  the  soul.  They  have  been 
kneeling  long  by  the  fountain  of  knowledge, 
and  now  seek  waters  for  bodily  health, 
while  for  a  little  they  let  the  spiritual  rest. 
Some  of  them  are  passing  away  very  fast. 
Yet  death  to  such  is  not  an  unwelcome 
visitor.  He  opens  a  door  to  deeper,  loftier 
study — They  look  to  Heaven!  No  mid 
night  lamp  there  !  No  weary  poring  over 
musty  books ;  no  crucible  or  alembic.  Li 
berty,  large  souled  liberty,  and  study  by  the 
light  of  God's  presence  everywhere  !  The 
fountain  of  knowledge  flows  not  far  fromj 
the  waters  of  the  river  of  life. 

Did  it  never  strike  you  as  strange,  that 
while  the  professed  object  of  visitors  at  the 
Springs  is  to  regain  health,  they  so  seldom 
think  of  death ;  the  death  so  many  of  them  are 
shunning?  It  would  seem  as  if  among  a 


FACES.  189 

crowd  of  thousands  who  are  here  to  strength 
en  their  hold  on  life,  and  beat  off  the  attacks 
of  disease,  some  preachers  would  be  found 
every  day  standing  by  the  Congress,  and 
crying  aloud  to  the  throng.  But  I  beg  you'll 
not  mistake  me  for  one.  I  know  I'm  given 
to  preaching  occasionally,  and  can  only  beg 
pardon,  and  step  out  of  the  pulpit  I  have  no 
right  to  be  in. 

Willis  has  passed  us  some  half  dozen 
times  with  his  fair  armful,  and  appears  now 
to  be  calling  her  attention  to  a  boy  who  is 
selling  candy  or  peaches  to  a  gentleman  on 
the  steps.  The  contrast  between  the  seller's 
rags  and  the  buyers  exquisite  dress,  is  no 
ticeable.  But  it  bears  no  comparison  with 
a  contrast  I  saw  a  few  weeks  ago  in  your 
city.  I  was  walking  in  South-street,  and 
met  a  man  and  woman.  She  was  tall,  and 
had  you  met  her  in  a  palace,  you  would 
have  said  she  was  queenly.  But  such  an 
expression  of  desolation  I  never  saw  on  hu 
man  faces  as  was  on  those  two.  He  had 


190       THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

his  arm  around  her,  as  if  to  support  her 
feeble  steps  (remembering,  perhaps,  how 
he  once  supported  them  when  they  were 
young  and  strong,  in  dear  old  Ireland),  but 
he  was  too  weak  with  starvation,  and  so 
they  tottered  along  side  by  side,  toward  the 
grave.  They  did  not  look  up  for  any  sound, 
but  fixing  their  eyes  on  the  stones  of  the 
pavement,  which  they  thought,  I  doubt  not, 
not  half  so  hard  as  the  hearts  of  men,  they 
walked  on.  I  cannot  forget  that  look  of  set 
tled  agony!  No  smile,  no  shadow,  no. evi 
dence  of  thought  passed  over  their  counte 
nances,  which  were  marbled  into  despair.  I 
thought  of  that  home  across  the  water,  the 
girlhood  of  that  woman  ;  their  happy,  holy 
love,  their  hopes  and  joys.  They  lived  long 
together  in  Ireland.  Then  came  the  change. 
The  crops  failed,  the  rent  was  due,  and  they 
barely  paid  it,  and  had  enough  to  come 
across  the  ocean.  Then  there  was  the  long, 
long  crossing  of  the  sea.  The  children  died 
one  by  one,  till  the  youngest,  her  bright  boy, 


FACES.  191 

was  let  down  into  the  deep  water,  and  she 
was  desolate  !  I  cannot  pretend  to  sum  up 
the  volume  I  read  in  the  instant  that  I  was 
passing  them  in  the  street ;  and  almost  the 
next  man  I  met  was  one  whom  I  knew  as 
a  millionaire.  Was  not  the  contrast  fearful  ? 
Those  two  wanderers  have  long  ere  this 
been  buried  in  the  pauper's  grave.  Death 
was  in  their  faces  !  those  faces  that  left  such 
an  impression  on  my  mind  that  I  am  think 
ing  and  writing  of  them  here  among  the  gay 
scenes  of  Saratoga. 


LETTER  XXIII. 

THE    COTTAGE. 

•* 

U.  S.  HOTEL,  SARATOGA,  Aug.  28th. 

"  How  do  we  manage  to  kill  the  time  here," 
did  you  ask  ?  Reasonably  well.  Our  com 
pany  is  far  from  a  dull  one,  and  the  day 
passed  in  riding  or  walking  furnishes  mate 
rial  for  a  pleasant  evening,  when  we  collect 
our  small  forces  in  the  corner  of  the  parlor, 
and  talk  the  hours  away.  They  fly  swiftly 
enough,  I  assure  you.  We  have  a  sort  of 
understanding  that  it  is  the  duty  of  each  one 
to  seize  on  every  anecdote,  and  especially 
every  local  incident  he  or  she  can  find,  for 
the  benefit  of  the  company.  We  have  by 
this  means  amassed  a  quantity  of  matter  in 
the  way  of  legends  and  stories  of  Saratoga 
and  its  neighborhood,  sufficient  to  stock  a 
volume.  I  very  much  fear  to  weary  you 
with  any  of  these,  for  my  letters  have  al- 


THE    COTTAGE.  193 

ready  proved  too  dull  for  Saratoga  corre 
spondence.  But  I  will  trust  to  your  excel 
lent  judgment,  my  most  sagacious  friend,  to 
read  or  not  as  may  seem  best  to  you  ;  and  so 
I  will  let  my  pen  run  on. 

Has  it  struck  you  that  every  good -story 
you  ever  came  across,  whether  truth  or  fic 
tion,  was  a  love-story?  I  hesitate  when 
about  to  write  out  a  legend  or  a  tale  of  life, 
lest  some  crusty  reader  shall  exclaim  with 
a  sneer,  "  Pshaw !  a  love-story ;"  and  throw 
the  paper  down.  But  I  argue  with  myself 
that  such  readers  are  worthless.  I  pity  the 
man  who  finds  only  nonsense  or  (what  he 
esteems  its  equivalent)  romance  in  the  true 
history  of  an  affection.  He  is  los't  to  the 
finer  feelings  of  the  nature  God  gave  him. 
Something  has  seared  his  heart,  making  it 
callous  where  it  should  be  most  sensitive. 
For  myself  I  rejoice  when  I  meet  with  or 
hear  of  such  a  love.  I  rejoice  that  some 
thing  of  Eden  is  left  on  earth ;  that  a  gleam 
of  heaven  does  fall  through  a  rift  in  the 


194       THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

clouds  of  sensuality  which  darken  our  sky. 
That  a  smile  of  God  is  here  and  there  to  be 
met  with  on  my  pathway,  and  though  I 
may  have  done  with  sunning  myself  in  such 
smiles,  I  can  remember  when  I  did,  and 
would  to  God  others  older  than  I  would  re 
member  days  when  they  loved. 

In  one  of  the  pleasantest  rides  we  have 
had  about  Saratoga,  we  found  one  day  a 
cottage  whose  appearance,  under  a  noble 
elm,  and  by  the  side  of  a  brook  whose  prat 
tling  was  for  ever  musical,  led  me  instantly 
to  suppose  that  it  was  worth  visiting;  more 
especially  as  it  was  evidently  very  old,  and 
had  about  it  the  look  of  the  eighteenth  cen 
tury.  I  took  a  couple  of  hours  the  other  day 
to  visit  it,  and  having  made  up  my  mind 
that  it  had  a  story  connected  with  it,  I  ques 
tioned  the  old  man  whom  I  found  in  it  so 
closely,  that  I  at  length  gathered  a  tale  of 
the  life  of  man,  that  I  thought 'well  worth 
repeating  to  the  coterie  aforesaid,  and  which 
may  be  worth  writing  here.  ^ 


THE  COTTAGE  195 

The  widow  Johnson  occupied  that  cot 
tage  sixty-five  years  ago,  and  with  her  lived 
her  son,  a  noble  boy  of  fifteen,  who  was  the 
pride  of  the  country  around.  None  was  so 
well  beloved  as  he,  except  his  adopted  sister 
Kate  Harden.  She  was  indeed  a  fairy.  Her 
golden  hair  seemed  to  be  akin  to  the,  winds 
on  which  it  floated  so  freely,  and  her  eyes 
had  won  their  deep  hue  from  the  sky  into 
which  she  was  so  often  found  gazing. 
"  Why  gazed  she  thus  ?"l  She  had  a  mother 
beyond  the  blue  above  her  !  A  mother  who 
dying  had  MUbeir-^4k&-€«re^l5Irs.  John- 
son,  and.until  her  voice  failed,  charged  her 
to  meet  her  in  Heaven. J  Nay,  after  she  had 
ceased  to  speak,  she  held  her  daughter  to 
her  breast  with  her  left  arm,  and  pointing  up 
with  her  thin,  white  finger,  smiled  a  holy 
smile,  and  sought  her  home.  ^  I 

Mrs.  Johnson  was  not  rich  in  the  world's 
goods.  The  few  acres  which  she  rented, 
afforded  a  mere  subsistence,  and  Kate  and 
Edward  assisted  her  in  her  labors.  It  was 


196  THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

not  strange  that  those  two  children,  when 
the  one  was  sixteen  and  the  other  was 
seventeen,  should  love  one  another.  Kate 
was  a  strange  child.  They  said  she  talked 
with  those  whom  others  could  not  see — and 
I  do  not  doubt  it.  I  have  no  doubt  she  held 
high  gommunion  with  her  sainted  mother. 
At  all  events  her  voice  fell  on  her  ear  in 
dreams  of  day  as  well  as  of  night,  until  she 
could  no  longer  resist  its  earnest  call. 

She  faded.  One  by  one  the  bonds  that 
held  her  to  her  cottage  home  were  loosened  ; 
one  by  one  her  gay  girlish  affections  were 
mastered  and  suppressed  until  one  only  re 
mained,  and  then  she  was  ready.  That  one 
love  was  the  mightiest  of  all.  She  did  not 
crush  that,  for  she  was  thoughtful  enough 
to  know  that  that  might  live  when  death 
was  passed ;  for  there  are  affections  strong 
enough  to  reach  from  earth  to  heaven. 

The  morning  of  her  departure  came,  with 
its  sweet  spring  flowers  and  atmosphere 
laden  with  the  odors  of  the  country.  All 
things  seemed  to  be  strangely  solemn.  The 


THE    GOTTAGE.  197 

sun  peered  curiously  in  at  the  little  lat 
tice,  and  fell  across  the  foot  of  the  bed  on 
which  the  slender  form  of  the  dying  girl  lay. 
Her  bird  sang  doubtfully  in  its  cage,  and 
the  very  cat  by  the  hearth  looked  up  and 
seemed  to  feel  that  there  was  something 
sad  going  on. 

The  moment  of  agony  at  length  came. 
She  had  parted  with  all  but  him,  and  now 
she  held  his  hand  between  her  two,  and 
smiled  on  his  pale  face  (as  pale  as  hers), 
and  spoke  in  a  low  sweet  tone  of  all  the 
past  and  future.  "  You  will  miss  me  when 
you  go  after  the  cow  in  the  evening,  Ned, 
and  the  lane  will  be  lonely,  will  it  not? 
And  when  you  sit  down  here  by  the  hearth 
with  mother,  and  my  chair  is  empty — you'll 
miss  me  then  too,  brother.  You'll  sit  at  the 
table  with  her,  and  have  no  one  at  the  side 
of  it ;"  and  her  voice,  broken  and  faint  as  it 
was,  fell  to  a  lower  tone  as  she  continued  . 
"  Go  out  in  the  twilight  sometimes,  Ned, 
and  sit  down  under  the  tree  by  the  spring 


THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

on  the  red  seat.  I'll  come  there  if  I  can." 
A  moment  passed  in  silence  as  he  leaned 
over  toward  her ;  then  suddenly  throwing 
her  arms  around  his  neck  she  said,  "  I  love 
you,  love  you,  love  you,  brother  Ned ;"  and 
drawing  his  head  down,  pressed  her  lips  to 
his,  in  the  last  long  kiss  of  life,  and  laying 
his  cheek  close  against  hers,  smiled  a  smile 
of  serene  and  joyful  hope,  and  -  Kate  was 
an  angel ! 

"  Is  that  all  your  story  ?"  did  you  ask  ? 
Not  by  considerable,  my  dear  friend.  There's 
more  love  to  come  yet.  "  What !  another 
love  after  his  promised  tryst  with  Kate  on 
the  green  bank  yonder  by  the  spring?" 
Yes,  another ;  but  not  such  a  one  as  you 
imagine.  Don't  you  suppose  a  man  can ' 
love  anything  else  but  a  woman  a  year  or 
two  his  junior  ?  Remember  that  Edward 
has  a  mother,  and  now  be  patient,  and  I'll 
tell  you  what  became  of  her. 

Mrs.  Johnson  and  Ned  had  a  lonely  life 
after  they  had  laid  their  darling  Kate  in  the 


THE    COTTAGE.  199 

graveyard  over  by  the  churches  at  Milton  ; 
and  as  misfortunes  are  said  to  come  in 
crowds,  so  in  their  case.  That  very  year 
the  crops  failed,  the  cow  died,  and  a  dozen 
other  troubles  followed:  and  the  result 
was,  that  Mrs.  J.  gave  up  the  cottage  and 
accepted  the  offer  of  a  home  with  a  kind 
neighbor,  while  Edward  was  to  "go  and 
seek  his  fortune." 

He  went  to  New  York,  to  a  brother  of  his 
father,  who  was  a  sea  captain,  and  who  took 
him  across  the  Atlantic.  After  his  first  voy 
age  and  two  years'  absence  from  home,  he 
returned  to  his  mothers  side,  "and,"  said 
the  old  man,  my  informant,  "  I  saw  him 
the  first  night  he  was  at  home,  sitting  under 
the  elm  tree  out  there  where  you  see  that 
•green  bank,  and  I  heard  that  before  dark 
that  afternoon  he  had  been  over  to  the 
churches  and  the  grave-yard." 

A  few  days  only,  and  he  left  home  again. 
His  mother,  gladdened  by  his  return,  was, 
nevertheless,  much  more  reluctant  to  have 


200       THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

him  go  than  when  he  first  went.  This  re 
luctance  increased  as  the  day  approached. 
Then  she  begged  him,  if  it  were  possible,  to 
stay  with  her ;  but  he  had  promised  his  un 
cle,  and  would  not  forfeit  his  word,  nor 
would  she  have  him.  "  I  shall  see  you 
again,  soon, — very  soon  mother.  Why  do 
you  feel  so  badly  ?  This  voyage  is  not  to 
be  a  long  one,  and  if  my  uncle  does  all  he 
promises,  I  will  buy  you  the  cottage  when 
I  come  back.  We  shall  meet  again,  very 
soon,  mother."  We  shall  meet  again,  when 
your  father  and  you,  and  Kate  and  I  meet 
yonder,  my  son,"  said  the  mother.  "  Why 
mother !  What  makes  you  speak  so  ?  It 
will  not  be  a  year  before  I  shall  kiss  you, 
standing  just  here."  "  Never  again,  my  son. 
I  know  that  this  will  be  the  last  kiss  your  lips 
will  press  on  mine  until  the  Resurrection." 

And  so  that  mother  and  son  parted.  They 
met  again  five  years  ago  in  heaven ;  not  till 
then.  He  was  older  than  she,  as  we  count 
years  here  on  earth,  and  his  hair  silvered  and 


THE    COTTAGE.  201 

thin,  when  he  lay  down  to  die  among  the 
sounds  of  the  mighty  metropolis.  Every 
year,  year  after  year,  a  pilgrim  came  in  the 
early  spring  when  the  first  flowers  bloomed, 
and  stayed  for  a  few  days  in  the  cottage 
here.  The  afternoons  he  used  to  pass  in 
the  graveyard,  but  the  twilight  always  found 
him  seated  on  the  bank  by  the  spring.  He 
grew  rich  until  his  coffers  overflowed.  He 
bought  the  cottage,  but  did  not  come  to  live  in 
it.  He  seemed  to  have  conceived  an  attach 
ment  for  business  and  the  city.  His  annual 
pilgrimage  was  the  only  relief  he  had  from 
his  counting  room.  He  grew  old,  older,  un 
til  he  carried  the  weight  of  three  score  years 
and  ten  to  keep  that  solemn  tryst  of  his  boy 
hood.  One  winter  day  he  had  been  too  un 
well  to  go  from  his  lordly  mansion,  and  as 
evening  came  on,  he  lay  on  his  bed  and 
looked  into  the  grate,  listening  to  the  roar 
of  carriages  in  the  street  without.  A  young 
man  from  his  office  entered  and  conversed 
with  him  in  regard  to  the  day's  business, 
10 


202       THE  OWL  CREEK  LETTERS. 

and  left  him  lying  thus  alone.  He  had 
sent  his  housekeeper  and  servants  out  him 
self. 

Who  shall  say  what  were  the  thoughts 
that  filled  the  mind  of  the  weary  old  man 
that  night,  or  what  communion  he  had  with 
the  past — the  far,  but  unforgotten  past !  Did 
he  hear  the  wind  rustling  the  leaves  of  the 
old  elm  tree  ?  Did  the  gurgle  of  the  springs, 
the  fall  of  the  brook,  the  song  of  the  birds, 
fill  his  ear  with  their  old  music  ?  Did  his 
mother's  hand  press  coolly  on  his  forehead, 
and  her  voice  woo  him  to  sleep  with  one  of 
her  old  mountain  songs  ?  What  fairy  form 
was  that  ?  Did  his  angel  Kate  hover  around 
his  bed,  and  did  her  lips  press  his,  and  was  her 
kiss  now  on  his  brow  ?  Were  those  her  arms 
around  his  neck  once  more  in  the  embrace 
of  girlhood,  and  was  that  melodious  voice 
hers  again  murmuring  in  his  ear, — j'  I  Jove 
you,  love  you,  love  you,  brother  Ned  ?  And 
did  her  cheek,  her  velvet  cheek,  lie  warm 
ly  close  to  his,  and  did  she  draw  him 


THE  COTTAGE.  203 

closer,  closer  to  her  in  that  holy  clasp, 
and  was  all  this  a  dream  of  earth,  or  was 
it  Heaven  ?/ 

It  was  Heaven,  for  he  was  there.  / 


NOTE. 


This  volume  has  been  printed  during  the  absence  of  its  author 
from  the  city,  and  has  not  had  the  benefit  of  a  careful  revision 
in  the  proof.  Before  it  reached  the  hands  of  the  binder,  the 
sheets  were  submitted  to  him  and  among  many  unimportant 
errors  he  has  detected  the  following,  which  he  deems  it  necessary 
to  correct. 


Page    21, 
27, 


Line  2d  for 

"  5th 
91,  last  line  but  one 

95,    Line  4th 

101,      "  Uth    " 

103,      "  Itk     " 

129,       "  8th    " 


Jeen 

ccelum 

into 

dellicious 

taffrel 

reached 

week 


read  Jean. 
"     saeclum. 
"     in. 

delicious, 
taffrail. 
reaches, 
wreek. 


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LIBRARY,  COLLEGE  OF  AGRICULTURE,  DAVIS 
UNIVERSITY  OP  CALIFORNIA 

Book  Slip-10m-8,'49(B5851s4)458 


M 
P 

89985 

P32664   1 

Prime,  W.C. 

PA      ^ 

The  Owl  C 

-eek  letters 

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&'~& 


